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.
He made a choice.
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. night at the museum 3 cj
CJ stumbled. Jedediah caught him. The cowboy’s legs were gone now, just two stumps of dissolving resin. He lay in Jedediah’s arms, looking up at the vast ceiling of the British Museum.
He stood up, walked to the ghost of Merenkahre, and held up the Tablet. “Don’t save the magic for all of us. Just save it for him.” The Egyptian wing was a disaster zone
Without thinking, CJ leaped from the chariot. He flew through the air, arms outstretched, his little leather duster flapping. For one terrible second, he was just a doll—a collection of painted resin and string. But he was also a cowboy. And cowboys don’t let their friends fade away.
“Mister Pharaoh,” CJ said, his voice steady despite the cracks forming on his cheek. “You can’t fix the whole enchilada. But maybe… maybe you can fix one little taco.” A row of shabti figurines twitched and fell
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.