The Intuitives

1

Alexandria, Egypt

Seven Years Ago

From the moment the chisel first broke through the stone into the empty air beyond, he knew they had found it. He felt it in his bones—an ache that began in the center of his chest and radiated outward, splintering apart to hurtle around his ribs and pierce his spine, screaming up his neck and along his arms and down his legs, until every last, trembling inch of him was filled with it.

The fools. They had no idea what they’d done.

Amr waited helplessly as Paolo, the foreman, called up to Professor Langston.

Professor! Come quick! I think we’ve found it!

Langston was the lead archaeologist—an American, as luck would have it, still unaccustomed to the heat of the Egyptian sun. Even here in Alexandria, the white jewel of a city that floated impossibly upon the Mediterranean, Langston had been hiding in his tent, mopping his face with his trusty blue bandana four or five times a minute, slowly melting away.

Yes, yes. I’m coming, he called back, sounding far more weary than hopeful. This was the fifth time today that Paolo had uttered these exact same words, each new discovery amounting to nothing more than worthless limestone and bitter disappointment.

But Amr knew. And as Langston approached the end of the long excavation tunnel, he felt it too, finally quickening his pace. The hole in the back wall held a cavernous promise of space behind it, and the old man all but sprinted the last few steps, excitement burning in his wizened blue eyes.

Dig! he shouted. So we can see it, Paolo! Dig!

Under Paolo’s careful direction, the hole began to widen, until they were finally standing on the brink of a man-sized breach in the ancient rock.

Bring the torches! Langston ordered, slapping Paolo on the back in his enthusiasm. Hurry!

Paolo disappeared down the tunnel and returned in moments, carrying several battery-powered LED lamps designed for precisely this purpose: the distant illumination of large, dark caverns.

Yes! Yes, good! Here! The professor beckoned to him, one weather-beaten hand grasping impatiently in the air. Paolo deposited a lamp into his eager palm and took up two more himself, ready to employ them as needed.

Taking a deep breath, Langston turned on the light.

Paolo! Paolo! He turned around and grabbed the man’s shoulder, tears springing to his eyes.

Professor! Are you all right? Paolo looked into the older man’s face, clearly worried about his health, but Langston nodded and waved his concerns away, the lamp still in his hand. He was too overcome to speak, but he gestured to the hole, moving aside to make room for the others. Paolo stepped up to it and shined both lamps through as Amr peeked over his shoulder.

Yes, the professor breathed in his ear. Look! We are the first! The first in over two thousand years!

Amr shuddered. He knew far better than they how long it had been.

He watched in anguish as eager hands held up one spotlight after another, a wonderment of statues emerging from the darkness, their shadows slithering over each other only to slip back into the earth below. Imps, gargoyles, minotaurs, gryphons, harpies, unicorns, and even stranger shapes tore at each other’s throats—hundreds of creatures locked together in an ancient, raging war, frozen in time.

In the center, two dragons rose above them all, one white and one black, stone wings spread wide, jeweled teeth glistening in the harsh, modern light. But it was what towered between them that made Paolo begin to shout, his yells echoing throughout the underground chamber as the professor pounded him over and over on his back, the promise of untold wealth burning in their eyes. In the midst of the carnage stood an ancient pyramid, its tremendous door emblazoned with a giant image, carved in deep relief: the side view of a life-sized lion, rearing up on its hind legs, its body struck through by a single bolt of lightning.

•  •  •

They stood before the door soon enough, the pyramid looming over their heads. Amr stared at it in wonder—and fear—only half listening to Langston.

You see, Paolo? he was saying, his voice trembling with excitement. It was said in his day that Alexander’s mother, Olympias, dreamed on the eve of her marriage that her womb was struck by a lightning bolt, igniting a flame that spread far and wide across the land. As he said this, he pointed toward the door, his hand tracing the line of the lightning bolt in the air. It was also said that his father, Philip, saw himself in a dream, sealing his wife’s womb with the image of a lion.

But surely that was just a myth, created to support the legend that he became within his own lifetime, Paolo objected, his voice laced with doubt.

Yes, yes. Don’t you see? the professor replied, shaking his head urgently. "It is what they said of him, whether it was true or not. This is the emblem of both dream-myths together, marking Alexander’s final resting place, the tomb to which his generals moved him during the civil wars that followed his death."

Paolo nodded along with the explanation. So what are these markings? he asked, indicating the carvings that circled the stone frame.

Ancient Persian. Further proof! The usual warnings—as you would expect to find on the crypt of an emperor in this part of the world.

You can read them?

Yes, of course. It says, ‘Here lies the king of two realms, who walked in grace in both this world and the next. With this tomb, the window to the next life is sealed. Disturb it not, lest the great works of his kingdom be destroyed.’

Close enough, Amr thought. He could read them as easily as he could read modern Arabic, but he kept that knowledge to himself.

Langston stood back and admired the ancient door, his eyes threatening to tear up again, but he wiped them furiously with his bandana and took a deep breath to compose himself.

We must see it for ourselves.

But the authorities— Amr protested.

No! the professor almost shouted. I mean, yes. We will report the find, of course. But not just yet. Please. I am an old man, and I have dreamed of this moment since I was a child. I must see it for myself, while I still ‘walk in this world,’ as it says.

OK, Professor, Paolo agreed. But just the fiber cameras. We must not open it fully without the authorities present. I would lose my license.

Of course, Langston agreed. That’s all I ask.

They chose a spot deep within the carving, in the ball of the lion’s foot, drilling slowly, carefully, until Paolo’s patient efforts were finally met by a sudden lack of resistance. For the first time in over two thousand years, the seal on the tomb of Alexander the Great had been broken.

If the very movement of the world seemed to stutter for just an instant, if the tomb itself seemed to take a long, shuddering breath, Amr was the only one who noticed.

This is the beginning of the end. And I am the only one who knows it. They have doomed us all.

He closed his eyes and shook the thought away. He could not afford to lose hope. Not now. There was a plan for this. There had always been a plan for this. And there was still time. They were out there, somewhere—they were out there, and he would find them, wherever they were.

Before it was too late.

2

Roman

Present Day

Roman paused outside the small duplex, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob, refusing to grip it with any real conviction. Refusing to turn it.

The bees might be angry.

Not that standing in the hot Alabama sun was all that appealing. Even in late April, the heat rising off the cigarette-smeared asphalt fell somewhere just shy of egg frying. And the building itself wasn’t much to look at either: a narrow, two-story affair with faded green paint that peeled listlessly from the cracked front window. But it wasn’t the worst place Roman had ever lived.

It wasn’t so dismal as to reach into his soul and tear tiny pieces of him away every time he opened the door.

He had lived in places like that, places that threatened to drown you in your own hopelessness, the constant weight on your chest making it hard to breathe, the constant fear in your belly making it hard to close your eyes at night, listening in the dark to the perpetual scurrying of the wall rats and feeling like maybe they had more of a right to be there than you did yourself.

But this place, with its three tiny upstairs bedrooms and one and a half baths, the extra toilet being a luxury he had once only dreamed of in a family of seven, was no reason in itself not to open the door—no reason not to walk boldly into the small front space that served as a living room and flop down on one of the two squeaky couches, home safe after surviving another day at Grover Cleveland Middle School.

It was just that the house might not be empty.

His mother and Tony wouldn’t be home from work yet. His older sister, Kontessa, had gone to a friend’s house after school, and the two youngest would be at day care. That left his older brother, Marquon, who was fifteen and went to the high school now, so he got out half an hour earlier than Roman. If Marquon was already home, then Roman would be alone with the bees.

Roman took his hand off the doorknob and moved it gingerly toward the black front door itself, testing its heat after the hours of abuse it had taken in the afternoon sun. He jerked his hand away as soon as his fingertips made contact, nervous about being burned, but the surface was only uncomfortable, not scorching. He reached out again and placed both small, brown hands firmly against the plane this time, palms flat, letting his skin get used to the temperature, and then he leaned in slowly until his left ear was resting against the door itself.

At first, he didn’t hear anything at all.

He had just begun to hope that Marquon was out with his friends or maybe had followed some girl home from school, when the TV roared into life, the mad explosion of sound startling him back from the door with a fast shove of his arms. Even several steps away, standing in the small parking space in front of the building, he could still hear the blare of his family’s only television, the buzzing notes of its half-busted speakers rattling the window.

Roman’s shoulders slumped, but there was nothing for it. He would have to go in. His mother had made it perfectly clear that eleven years old was too young, in her opinion, for a boy to be walking twelve blocks to the corner store or hanging around the park by himself. Especially in that neighborhood. Especially a boy as small for his age as Roman. If he didn’t go in, Marquon would tell her that he hadn’t come straight home after school, and after everything that had happened three years ago, Roman had to keep his head down.

If his mother thought for even a moment that he might be causing trouble again, well, she would start screaming and crying and carrying on like a banshee, and then Tony would leave (Roman’s luck being what it was) and next thing you know they’d be out on the street, this time with baby Xavious in diapers, and with Child Protective Services still sniffing around after the last time…

Roman knew he didn’t have a choice. Sighing deeply against the inevitable, he reached out his hand and opened the door.

He tried to do it casually, like he wasn’t scared. Acting nervous around Marquon was like squeezing lighter fluid onto a barbecue. So instead of easing the door open like he wanted to and peeking his way around the edge, he just pushed it wide and walked through it, kicking off his shoes and sparing only the briefest of glances in his brother’s direction.

Marquon was glued to a video game and acted as though he couldn’t care less that his little brother had come home, but Roman knew it was just a ploy. He knew it because the first red bee spiraled slowly up out of his brother’s right ear. It angled toward him, flying only an inch or so in his direction until it stopped, hovering in midair, staring straight at Roman, a silent vanguard of impending doom.

Roman had started seeing strange things around people when he was only four or five years old. He wasn’t clear exactly when it had started because he had had no idea at the time that he was seeing anything unusual. He would tell his mother that a woman in the grocery store had eight arms, or that the preacher on television had a tail like a mermaid, and his mother would either laugh and say, Boy, you sure do have some imagination! or would frown and tell him it was about time he started living in the real world, depending on her mood.

In those days, his mother had looked like she lived in the middle of a tornado, just like the one he had seen in The Wizard of Oz, that whirled and thrashed around her with a somewhat greater or lesser promise of destruction from one moment to the next. Lately, though, the wind had finally settled down to a gentle breeze that simply twirled her skirts playfully and ruffled her hair from time to time. Tony seemed to have a lot to do with that, and Roman prayed every night that Tony would stay in the picture so the tornado would never come back.

He hadn’t realized how dangerous his visions could be, not only to him but to his entire family, until he was eight years old and had just started the third grade. His teacher that year, Mr. Lockhart, had been a particularly disturbed man, despite the outward appearance of propriety that he so diligently cultivated with his pressed businessman’s suits and his car salesman’s smile.

When Mr. Lockhart had discovered the haunted doodles in Roman’s notebook depicting massive, demonic wings growing out of the man’s shoulder blades, tearing right through the shadowy material of his favorite charcoal-gray jacket, the walking horror show himself had demanded an explanation on the spot, and a terrified young Roman had insisted that these ominous, though unlikely, protuberances were, in fact, the genuine article, staring at the man in wide-eyed panic and pointing tremblingly into the open air.

Mr. Lockhart, in response, had marched him right down to the principal’s office, calling his mother away from the Mexican restaurant where she was waitressing and demanding that she take her schizophrenic son to see a licensed psychiatrist posthaste. Loquisha Smith, however, had never been one to put up with other people’s nonsense.

She had issued a scathing rejoinder—with significantly more volume than the situation had probably required—explaining to Mr. Lockhart in no uncertain terms that there was no way she could afford a psychiatrist on a waitress’ salary and that in any event there was nothing wrong with her eight-year-old son, and suggesting that the man should spend more time teaching and less time sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and taking up good working people’s time with such shenanigans, only shenanigans was not precisely the word she used.

In tight-lipped fury, Mr. Lockhart had watched her storm away with her son in tow, and as soon as they were out of sight he had called Child Protective Services to report his grave concerns over the child’s mental health and his mother’s obvious inadequacy as a parent.

That night, her voice quavering with fear, Loquisha had unleashed her frustrations upon Roman’s young shoulders, explaining to him that all four of her children (Xavious had not yet been born at the time) could be taken away from her forever if he did not stop talking all this made-up shit and grow the hell up, and Roman had finally understood in stark and brutal clarity several truths that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

First, his mother had never seen any of the strange and wonderful things that he saw and told her about every day. Second, she had never believed for a moment that he had really seen them either. Third, if she had believed him, she would have thought he was as crazy as Mr. Lockhart did. Fourth, terrible things would happen if he didn’t start hiding his visions from every other human being on the planet, including his own mother.

Over the next four weeks, Roman had spent several hours of his life convincing a court-ordered psychiatrist that he did not really think there were demonic wings growing out of his third-grade teacher’s back. That would be crazy, and Roman was not crazy. He had been drawing scary doodles in his notebook because he had stayed up one night to watch a horror film on TV when he was supposed to be in bed. The movie had scared him. He had had nightmares for a week or two. He had drawn some creepy pictures. Then the nightmares had stopped, and he was fine now. He did not feel like drawing scary pictures anymore. He would gladly draw a picture of his mom and his brother and his two sisters all living together in one big, happy house if the doctor would like to see that. Yes, he would very much like a lollipop, thank you for asking.

But telling people that the visions weren’t real did not make them stop. He still saw the winds blowing around his mother. He still saw a gray fog of fear and insecurity wrapping Kontessa so tightly within its grasp that he had trouble seeing her real body through it at all. He still saw young Shaquiya standing in a perpetual ring of sunshine as she pranced about the house, the light soft and ethereal, filtered through a canopy of summer leaves and glimmering off her giant, iridescent fairy wings. And he still saw the swarm of angry, red bees that lived inside his brother, Marquon.

He stared at Marquon now, just for a moment, while his brother pretended not to see him, hogging the television so he could play his video games, the solitary bee of glowing red light standing vigil over his head.

What are you playing? Roman asked.

Sometimes, talking about Marquon’s games would soothe the hive, and they could sit for a while and have a pleasant conversation about quick scoping and weapon choices and how good Marquon was at blowing his opponents away. Anything to keep the bees from getting angry. Not that the bees themselves could sting him, but when the bees got mad enough to attack, Marquon did, too. With four years and at least fifty pounds between them, Roman never came out well when his big brother lost his temper.

Roman waited a few moments, but Marquon didn’t answer.

Marquon?

Still nothing. Roman finally decided to head toward the kitchen and dig up something to snack on, but he hadn’t taken three steps before he heard his brother’s voice calling him back.

Yo, Romario.

Yeah? Roman asked, sighing a little. Marquon always used his full name, mostly because he knew Roman hated it.

Roman had spent almost as many hours of his young life reading as he had drawing, and he had developed a strong suspicion that the name his mother claimed she had ‘just made up’ for him was, in fact, a moniker mash-up of Romeo, from Romeo and Juliet, and Lothario, from Don Quixote, as though she expected him to grow up to be as much of a ladies’ man as she asserted his father to be.

Roman, however, regarded his father as little more than a drunk and a petty criminal who seemed destined to spend his entire life oscillating in and out of jail on a pathetically regular schedule, and he had no interest in being compared to the man on any basis whatsoever, whether real or imagined. He was also only eleven, so the idea of becoming a great romancer of women was mortifying in and of itself, and he had taken great pains to make sure that everyone referred to him as ‘Roman’ instead of ‘Romario,’ thereby guaranteeing that Marquon would do no such thing.

You hear about that test? Marquon asked.

Yeah.

You think you gonna do better’n me?

Naw. No way, man. You know you gonna blow me away.

Damn straight, Marquon snapped back. You know why?

’Cause you’re smarter than me.

Hell yeah, I am.

Yeah, I know. You want a soda?

Marquon’s eyes left the television just long enough to size up his brother’s attitude, but he must have decided Roman was being genuine because the little bee of red light turned and flew toward Marquon, landing on his forehead and crawling back into him through his left eyeball.

Roman tried not to react to his visions so people wouldn’t realize he was still having them, but he hated it when the bees crawled into his brother’s eyes or up his nose or into his ears. It was unsettling, and he winced a little as he watched it disappear.

What? Marquon demanded, and the bee flew back out of his left eye, accompanied by two more from his right.

Nothing, Roman said quickly. I was just thinking about school. I tanked my science quiz. Mama’s gonna be pissed.

Ha! Yeah, she is, dumb-face. Freak-face Romario. Fail-face Romario. He said his name like a taunt each time, and the three bees danced a happy little jig in the air over Marquon’s head before disappearing into his right ear.

Roman just shrugged. It didn’t matter what his brother thought of him. All that mattered was that Marquon didn’t lose his temper and beat the heck out of him before their mother or Tony got home.

Well? Marquon asked, when Roman didn’t say anything else.

Huh?

Are you gonna go get the sodas or what?

Oh. Yeah.

’Bout freakin’ time.

Roman was smart enough not to point out that Marquon had never answered his question and had not asked for a soda. Keeping his mouth shut, he made his way down the short hallway into the kitchen, grabbed two cans out of the fridge, and walked back into the living room.

Here.

Roman eased a can onto the coffee table, and Marquon grunted in Roman’s general direction, never taking his eyes off the television. It wasn’t exactly gratitude, but it served as a kind of acknowledgment—a subtle cue that they were on truce for the day, at least in Marquon’s opinion, which was the only one that mattered.

Roman knew he shouldn’t press his luck. He knew he should head upstairs to the tiny room he shared with Xavious, where his private sketchbook was stashed beneath the crib. He kept two sketchbooks now, a ‘light’ one and a ‘dark’ one. The light one he carried around, drawing beautiful images of Shaquiya’s fairy wings or his mother’s smile, but the dark one he kept hidden away.

Most eleven-year-old boys would have hated sharing a room with an infant, but Roman didn’t mind it so much. At least he never saw anything strange around his baby brother. He figured he would eventually—he saw things around everyone else. But for now, Xavious just ate and cried and burped and slept, and in between he practiced walking without falling down and saying NO and MINE and BOBO, which is what he called Roman, accompanied by Marquon’s endless snickering. Roman hated changing diapers as much as anyone else, but it was nice to feel normal once in a while.

And when he wasn’t feeling normal at all, when all the evil he had seen during the day decided to get up and start lurching around inside his head, screeching and clawing its way through his brain with no way out, he could grab his sketchbook and spill all that darkness onto its pristine white pages. And Xavious would never tell a soul. The kid would just hobble over to where Roman lay on the floor, sketching furiously, and he would gurgle and laugh as the images flowed into life before his eyes, as though there wasn’t anything the least bit disturbing about any of it.

That was what Roman should do now, while he could—while Marquon was busy with his video games and nobody else was home—but he kept thinking about the stupid test. They had just announced it that afternoon. Morning classes would be canceled for every grade from the third through the twelfth for some new test. It made him nervous. Before the whole Lockhart nightmare, he wouldn’t have cared. He would have just aced it, whatever it was. But now he lived by certain rules. No good grades. Don’t stand out. Keep your head down. See trouble coming.

So even though Marquon was ignoring him and Roman could have escaped into his bedroom in peace for a couple of hours, he just couldn’t stop himself from trying to find out more about it.

So… did they say what it’s for?

OMG, you still here, man?

Roman waited to see if his brother would say anything else, but the silence dragged on between them while the TV blasted screaming guitars and staccato gunfire.

I thought maybe they told you guys something at the high school, Roman tried again. About the test? They wouldn’t tell us anything.

Yeah, well, they didn’t tell us either. Just sit your asses down tomorrow and take the stupid Is-A-Bitch.

Roman perked up. Is-A-Bitch?

Man, you’re stupid. Marquon rolled his eyes. Intuition Assessment Battery. IAB. Is-A-Bitch. I can’t believe I literally have to spell that shit out for you. Just then, Marquon got shot and the game ended, his death playing over and over on the final kill-cam. Cursing, he threw the controller to the ground and stood up, his head whipping around to stare at Roman.

Roman backed away as the entire beehive streamed in vicious red streaks out of his brother’s eyes and ears and nose.

Sorry, Roman said, in a voice that sounded pathetically small and frightened, even to him. Marquon, I’m sorry.

"Gonna make you sorry, Mister Is-A-Bitch!"

He was so close to the front door. Roman wanted to yank at the doorknob and run into the street, but he knew he couldn’t. Marquon was already too far gone to stop himself. If Roman ran outside, Marquon would just chase after him, and if the neighbors saw his fifteen-year-old brother beating him half to death, someone would call the cops, and that would be that.

So Roman did what he always did—what he did for his mother and for Shaquiya and for innocent little Xavious so the cops wouldn’t come and take them away or run Tony off and ruin everything they finally had. He curled up in a ball and took the beating without making a sound. Marquon kicked him a few times and then fell on top of him, pummeling him without mercy, while a thousand bees of blood-red light swarmed around them.

3

Sam

Had anyone bothered to ask Samantha Prescott what she was doing with her sixteen-year-old life, she would have replied, matter-of-factly and with more than just a touch of bitterness, Waiting.

But waiting for what, she had no idea.

Ever since she was a child, she had understood—with a conviction that had sailed far beyond the realm of mere belief and landed finally upon the unassailable shores of hard, scientific fact—that every last scrap of popularity and power her classmates squabbled over, when measured on any meaningful scale whatsoever, added up to a sum total value of diddly-squat.

Every day she watched in both fascination and horror as the other sophomores scrabbled and spat their way through the merciless arena of high school drama, acting as though it were a matter of life and death which members of the slave-like masses came out on top for the day, as though the entire spectacle weren’t just going to repeat itself again tomorrow.

Really, why did they care? The boys were too childish to fight over. What dared to call itself fashion was hopelessly generic—no one had the guts to wear anything original in this boring, suburban quagmire. And what passed for ‘intelligent debate’ was just the parroted drivel of the previous generation, passed down from father to son and mother to daughter without any genuine reflection or even a token attempt at independent thought.

How had Sam arrived at this rather pessimistic view of the world? It had all started when she was only five years old. Her father had taken her to a ballet class, not because he had any desire to see his daughter grow into a debutante, but because she had very few friends her own age, and in the absurdly wealthy neighborhood they called home, a ballet