He walked out of the museum into the gray London morning, CJ’s tiny figure clutched in his pocket. The Tablet of Ahkmenrah was gone—reduced to harmless dust. But as Larry walked across the courtyard, he could have sworn he heard a faint, tinny voice whisper on the wind:
Silence. The world seemed to hold its breath.
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. night at the museum 3 cj
Behind him, Jedediah gasped. “CJ?”
Jedediah, the gruff Roman who had never once admitted to caring about the cowboy, wiped his eye with a tiny fist. “The best, you idjit. The best.” He walked out of the museum into the
But Larry was still moving. Still warm. Still alive.
“Ain’t about leaving, pardner,” CJ said, smiling as a flake of paint fell from his lip. “It’s about the ride.” The world seemed to hold its breath
Merenkahre stared for a long moment. Then, for the first time in three thousand years, the ghost of the pharaoh wept a single, crystalline tear of salt. It fell onto the Tablet. The rust didn’t vanish, but the hieroglyphs flared one last time—a brilliant, blinding gold.