We stood on a deserted avenue outside the gates of a large estate. We still seemed to be in Memphis—at least the trees, the weather, the afternoon light were all the same.
The estate must’ve been several acres at least. The white metal gates were done in fancy designs of silhouetted guitar players and musical notes. Beyond them, the driveway curved through the trees up to a two-story house with a white-columned portico.
“Oh, no,” Carter said. “I recognize those gates.”
“What? Why?”
“Dad brought me here once. A great magician’s tomb...Thoth has got to be kidding.”
“Carter, what are you talking about? Is someone buried here?”
He nodded. “This is Graceland. Home to the most famous musician in the world.”
“Michael Jackson lived here?”
“No, dummy,” Carter said. “Elvis Presley.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or curse. “Elvis Presley. You mean white suits with rhinestones, big slick hair, Gran’s record collection—that Elvis?”
Carter looked around nervously. He drew his sword, even though we seemed to be totally alone. “This is where he lived and died. He’s buried in back of the mansion.”
I stared up at the house. “You’re telling me Elvis was a magician?”
“Don’t know.” Carter gripped his sword. “Thoth did say something about music being a kind of magic. But something’s not right. Why are we the only ones here? There’s usually a mob of tourists.”
“Christmas holidays?”
“But no security?”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s like what Zia did at Luxor. Maybe Thoth cleared everyone out.”
“Maybe.” But I could tell Carter was still uneasy. He pushed the gates, and they opened easily. “Not right,” he muttered.
“No,” I agreed. “But let’s go pay our respects.”
As we walked up the drive, I couldn’t help thinking that the home of “the King” wasn’t very impressive. Compared to some of the rich and famous homes I’d seen on TV, Elvis’s place looked awfully small. It was just two stories high, with that white-columned portico and brick walls. Ridiculous plaster lions flanked the steps. Perhaps things were simpler back in Elvis’s day, or maybe he spent all his money on rhinestone suits.
We stopped at the foot of the steps.
“So Dad brought you here?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Carter eyed the lions as if expecting them to attack. “Dad loves blues and jazz, mostly, but he said Elvis was important because he took African American music and made it popular for white people. He helped invent rock and roll. Anyway, Dad and I were in town for a symposium or something. I don’t remember. Dad insisted I come here.”
“Lucky you.” And yes, perhaps I was beginning to understand that Carter’s life with Dad hadn’t been all glamour and holiday, but still I couldn’t help being a bit jealous. Not that I’d ever wanted to see Graceland, of course, but Dad had never insisted on taking me anywhere—at least until the British Museum trip when he disappeared. I hadn’t even known Dad was an Elvis fan, which was rather horrifying.
We walked up the steps. The front door swung open all by itself.
“I don’t like that,” Carter said.
I turned to look behind us, and my blood went ice cold. I grabbed my brother’s arm. “Um, Carter, speaking of things we don’t like...”
Coming up the driveway were two magicians brandishing staffs and wands.
“Inside,” Carter said. “Quick!”
I didn’t have much time to admire the house. There was a dining room to our left and a living room–music room to our right, with a piano and a stained glass archway decorated with peacocks. All the furniture was roped off. The house smelled like old people.
“Item of power,” I said. “Where?”