The Secret of Ka

HARCOURT
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt | Boston | New York | 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Christopher Pike

All rights reserved. For information about permission to
reproduce selections from this book, write to
Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
www.hmhbooks.com
Text set in 12-point Mt.Centaur

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pike, Christopher.
The secret of Ka / Christopher Pike.
p. cm.

Summary: When fifteen-year-old Sara unearths a flying carpet in Turkey, it takes
her and her new friend Amesh to the mysterious Island of the Djinn, where she
faces terrible creatures and an impossible decision—whether to save mankind,
herself, or the boy she is coming to love.

ISBN 978-0-547-34247-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) [1. Genies—Fiction. 2.
Carpets—Fiction. 3. Arabs—Fiction. 4. Monsters—Fiction. 5. Identity—
Fiction. 6. Fantasy.] I. Title.

PZ7.P626Sec 2010
[FIC]—DC22
2009049976

Manufactured in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
4500247746

For Christopher,
my brilliant nephew

A
N ENTIRE SUMMER
in Turkey alone with my father. When I first heard about the trip I was so excited, I didn't sleep for two days. But now that I had logged the obligatory twenty hours of jet travel that it took to get to the Middle East and another week in Istanbul itself—the hot and crowded capital of Turkey—I was having second thoughts.

Most of my doubts arose from just two of the above words:
hot
and
crowded.
If I was not in an air-conditioned room, I felt as if my clothes squeezed like a deep-sea wetsuit. And if my room didn't have every window tightly sealed, then my ears ached.

The Turks were so loud! Often I thought the problem was something as simple as mistaking the horn on their cars for the brake. I had yet to master their bus system. Taxis were my main form of transportation, but riding one was like working as a bouncer at a heavy metal concert. I mean, why would any driver use his brake when he could hit the horn and swear?

I had tried running the complaint by my father before he left for work—the only time I ever saw him—but he laughed and said that all foreign languages sound loud when you don't understand them.

"Hell. That's ridiculous," I said.

"Shhh, Sara, don't swear. Remember, you're in an Arab country."

"
Hell
is a swear word here?"

"Yes."

"Gosh darn, I didn't know," I replied sarcastically. My father frowned but didn't reply. He merely returned to buttering his toast. The truth was, I was annoyed with him. I had not given up my summer to go sightseeing. I wanted to be with him. But after sharing a two-bedroom hotel suite for a week, we had yet to spend a single day together. He had not even picked me up at the airport, but had sent some guy with a turban who worked for him to deposit me at the five-star hotel that had been home for the last seven days.

During that week I'd only seen Dad at breakfast and for a few minutes each night, when he would stumble back to our suite, totally fried. He'd kiss me on the cheek and ask if I'd had a nice day. Naturally, because he looked so tired, I'd smile and say, sure, had a great time. Which made not an iota of sense since I did the same thing each day, which was absolutely nothing.

To put it mildly, by the seventh day, I was going nuts.

Then, finally, fortune smiled on me, and I met Amesh.

I was sitting in the hotel restaurant, eating carrot cake and ice cream, when a cute Turkish guy came pedaling up on a moped. He parked outside the hotel and hurried into the lobby with a package that sported the logo of my father's firm. I was sure it was a Becktar Corporation package and that it was for my father. We were the only foreigners the company had stowed at the Hilton.

I jumped from my seat, gestured to the waiter to put the half-eaten dessert on my bill, and ran to the lobby. The guy was panting as I approached. He had on long white shorts that hid the better part of his muscular legs, and a long-sleeve white shirt—which was odd, since it was over a hundred degrees outside. Then I noticed that his shirt was knotted at the end of the right sleeve—tied so far up his arm, there was no room for anything beneath it.

He was missing his right hand.

The deformity did not bother me. Honestly, I found it intriguing. I wondered if he had lost it in battle. We were in an Arab country, after all. If you could believe my father, bloody wars were being waged outside our hotel every night.

But to be honest, his missing hand probably didn't bother me because he was ridiculously cute, though not Hollywood handsome. He didn't look like anybody I had ever met before. His hair was long and black, but not curly, unlike the vast majority of Turkey's population. He wore it in a ponytail tied with a rubber band.

His features were oversize: large dark eyes, thick lush lips, even his nose was too big for his face. Yet somehow the combination worked, and what we had left was pure babe. Really, back home at my school, if you took a hundred girls and asked if they'd like to get to know him better, all one hundred would have said yes. I felt kind of lucky I had him all to myself.

"Is that package for Charles Wilcox?" I asked as the woman at the desk prepared to sign the guy's form. He had already placed the package on the counter, and he did glance over at me, but I must not have made much of an impression because he turned back to the woman and said something in Turkish. She responded in kind and the two of them went about their lovely business and basically ignored me.

I told myself I should have been relieved. For once, two Turks were having a quiet conversation and not giving me a headache. Nevertheless, I resented being ignored. After all, I was a visitor to their country, and I had suffered to reach their land. They could at least show me some respect by acknowledging I existed.

They continued to babble at a thousand words a minute. For all I knew, they were talking about how immoral Americans were. It might have been their rudeness, or else I was just in a foul mood, but something inside me snapped. I reached over and grabbed the package.

"I'm going to take this," I said. "See the
Charles Wilcox
spelled out here? That's my father. And see the six red lines over here? That stands for Becktar. That's the company he works for. You don't have to worry about it; I'll make sure he gets it. Bye."

I walked away. I did not get far before I was attacked. Well, maybe that's too strong a word. But the guy did not ask for the package back, in English or Turkish. He tried to yank it out of my hands, which was too bad since the floor was made of very slippery marble.

He sent me toppling. I was lucky to land on my butt, yet I still felt a painful jolt inside my head. But I did not let go of the package. The way he stared down at me, you would have thought I had tried to steal his moped or slaughtered one of his sacred lambs or something.

He was furious! I was furious! We screamed at each other for a whole minute before I realized that he was speaking English. It was only then that I stopped to listen to what he was saying.

"Silly girl, I didn't hurt you," he said, his accent not nearly as thick as those of the other Turks I had met. "You tried to steal my package."

"Your package!" I said. "Where does it say it belongs to you? Huh? And didn't I point out—just before you hit me—that it has my father's name on it?"

"I didn't hit you," he said.

"Are you Sara Wilcox?" the woman behind the counter asked. She was not as upset as I would have expected. Secretly, she was probably enjoying the whole scene.

"Yes. I'm Sara Wilcox," I said. "My father's Charles Wilcox. This package is for him. I was just trying to do you two a favor and deliver it to him. But I can see my help is not appreciated."

He stared at me, puzzled. "Why do you keep sitting on the floor?"

"Because you're too rude to offer me a hand to get up." The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I realized it might sound crass to criticize a guy for not offering a hand when he only had one. But my fear was probably unfounded. He quickly offered me his good hand and helped me to my feet.

"Thank you," I said, brushing off my butt.

"You're welcome," he replied. "Can I have the package back?"

A stroke of genius struck. I suddenly realized that if I played my cards right, I could use this package, and this guy, to get me to my father. After all this time, I still did not know where he worked.

"Don't worry about it. I said I'd give it to my dad."

"But the woman at the counter has to scan it into her computer."

"Sorry, she won't be scanning today," I said as I held up the address slip, which had torn during our fight. "Tell your boss not to worry. My dad will get the package. You have my word."

I walked away. I was not positive he was following until I reached the elevator—I refused to turn around and check—but I was not surprised. The guy was starting to look worried.

"I need it back," he said.

"Trust me," I said. "My dad will get it."

"You don't understand. If the woman at the desk doesn't scan the slip, she won't give me a piece of paper that I have to give to my boss to show I was here."

"Have your boss call me. I'll tell him you were here. I'll even leave out the part where you hit me."

"I didn't hit you."

"You keep saying that. How did I end up on the floor?"

"You slipped and fell."

"After taking a brutal hit." The elevator rang and the door opened. "Excuse me, gotta go." Getting on the elevator, I pushed the tenth floor button. "Bye."

He jumped in beside me. The elevator doors closed and for the first time he looked me straight in the face. He was so interesting-looking, it made me wonder how I appeared in his eyes.

That June, I had just turned fifteen, and my frame was long and lanky. I was five-six, still growing, but I did not have much of a chest. My most formidable assets were my bright blue eyes and long blond hair. They received plenty of compliments, from girls and guys.

My nose was kind of small. My mother had gone through a phase where she called me "Button," as in "button nose"—and she had wondered why I did not speak to her that year. High-priced braces had given my smile some amps.

But what did I have to smile about? I was trapped in Istanbul for the summer. Trapped in an elevator with a cute Turkish guy who didn't like me. Of course, I was the one torturing him. To be blunt, I was behaving badly. It might have been his extraordinary sexiness that had thrown me off. Or else it was my desire to get to my father.

The elevator stopped on the tenth floor and I got off. The guy did not—sigh—and I realized that I was about to lose my excitement for the day. Yet he held the elevator door open.

"What's your problem?" he asked.

"My problem? I have a whole assortment of problems. What's today? Wednesday? I'm usually a monster come the middle of the week."

It was supposed to be a joke. He didn't smile; he didn't even speak.

"Do you work just for Becktar?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "Or do you deliver packages for lots of companies?"

"I work for Becktar. The same as your father."

I suddenly brightened. "You know my father?"

"Yes."

"Do you work in the same place? Out at the job site?"

"When I'm not making deliveries. I'm a gofer. Becktar has another office in town full of executives. That's where this package is from."

"A gofer. Cool. Look, I want to see my dad. But I don't know where your job site is. Can you take me there? Or can I take you there?"

He let go of the elevator door and stepped onto the tenth floor.

"Do I get my package back?" he asked.

I handed him the torn address slip. "This is all you need."

"Thank you ... Sara."

"What's your name?"

"Amesh. Amesh Demir."

I offered my hand. "Sara Sashee Wilcox."

"Nice name."

"Do we have a deal?"

He stared at my hand before shaking it. "Okay."

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Eighteen."

"Sure," I said.

He stiffened. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"You don't look that old."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Raleigh. Know where that is?"

"North Carolina."

I was impressed. "Clever boy. You a local?"

"Yes." He sighed. "A taxi will charge fifty lira to drive us out there. More if I don't argue the price. That's just one way."

"Great. Argue all you want. Just come with me and give the driver directions." I started walking toward my suite. He followed.

"It's none of my business but don't you see your father after work?"

"Look, Amesh, it's complicated. I know I'm asking for a favor, but I'm willing to give one in return. It's boiling outside. You don't want to ride your moped all the way back to the site. Come with me and you can relax in the back seat of an air-conditioned taxi." I paused. "You might even discover that you enjoy my company."