City of the Plague God Read online

  OTHER BOOKS BY SARWAT CHADDA

  Devil’s Kiss

  Dark Goddess

  The Savage Fortress (Ash Mistry #1)

  The City of Death (Ash Mistry #2)

  The World of Darkness (Ash Mistry #3)

  AS JOSHUA KHAN

  Shadow Magic

  Dream Magic

  Burning Magic

  Copyright © 2021 by Sarwat Chadda

  Introduction copyright © 2021 by Rick Riordan

  Cuneiform text copyright © 2021 Digital Hammurabi

  The author thanks Stephanie Dalley and Andrew George for their translated quotes from the Epic of Gilgamesh, used by permission.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address

  Disney • Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023.

  Designed by Jamie Alloy

  Cover artwork © 2021 by Kerem Beyit

  Cover design by Jamie Alloy

  ISBN 9781368066631

  Follow @ReadRiordan

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Author’s Note

  Glossary

  About the Authors

  To my wife and daughters

  It doesn’t get any more “old-school” than Mesopotamia.

  Without a doubt, the stories of Sumer, Babylon, and the rest of the Fertile Crescent are my favorite myths that I’ve never written about. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Sarwat Chadda knows the stories better than I do, and he is about to take you on a thrill ride you will never forget!

  If you’ve ever wondered how mythology can be important and relevant, even thousands of years after it was written, you only have to look at current events. This book was entitled City of the Plague God long before the recent outbreak of COVID-19. When he wrote it, Sarwat Chadda had no idea we would soon be facing a new sort of plague that would affect the lives of everyone on earth. He was just telling a fantasy story about Nergal, the plague god from ancient Mesopotamia, and imagining what would happen if Nergal were still around today. Now, because of the coronavirus, his story feels very real and close to home.

  At Rick Riordan Presents, we talked a lot about City of the Plague God after the virus became a global challenge. The book had been written and ready to go for months. Still, we didn’t want anyone to think we were trivializing or capitalizing on a worldwide crisis by releasing this type of story. In the end, we decided that this book and Mesopotamian myths have a lot to teach us about dealing with major upheavals—about fear of the unknown, courage in the face of danger, and the importance of family and community working together to solve problems.

  Mesopotamians were just as worried about and affected by disease outbreaks as we are today. The fact that they had a god of plagues tells us how seriously they took the issue. City of the Plague God is a timely story that gives us a chance to reflect on how much we have in common with our ancient ancestors. Like Gilgamesh, like Sikandar Aziz, the hero of this book, we are called on to be heroes, each of us in our own way, and stand up to a plague that threatens our community. Together, we can succeed!

  So…back to Mesopotamian mythology and what makes it awesome. Just the term ziggurat, for one thing—is there any cooler word? When I was a kid, I loved learning about those step pyramids. I marveled at the mysteries of cuneiform writing. I stared at pictures of winged lions, freaky dragons, and dudes with righteous curly beards and massive hats and wondered why I couldn’t be awesome like the Mesopotamians.

  Fast-forward a few decades, to when I became a teacher: Every year, my students and I would embark on a unit about Mesopotamia. It was always one of their favorite subjects. We would roll out the clay and practice writing in cuneiform. We’d make our own signature seals so we could sign clay tablets like pros. We would hold trials based on the Code of Hammurabi, meting out harsh punishments like cutting off hands (with red markers. Ah, I’m bleeding!), drowning in the Euphrates (with water guns), or stoning (with wadded-up paper balls). The kids would also reenact The Epic of Gilgamesh, complete with Nerf weapons and fake beards. The Mesopotamians would have been proud…or possibly horrified. Anyway, we had fun.

  As for the gods of Mesopotamia—wow! Those were some crazy deities. Ishtar, goddess of love and war. Nergal, the god of plague and war. Ninurta, the god of hunting and war. (Notice how all those gods are of something and war? They had a lot of conflicts back then.) Their stories offer a glimpse into one of the oldest known civilizations, which had a huge influence on Egypt, Greece, Rome, and the whole world.

  How excited was I when Sarwat Chadda offered to write a book bringing all this wild, wonderful mythology into the modern world for the Rick Riordan Presents imprint? Yeah, I was pretty excited. I’ve been a fan of Sarwat’s books for years—Ash Mistry, Shadow Magic—and I knew he was the perfect guy for the job.

  City of the Plague God does not disappoint. Our hero, Sikander Aziz, is an American Muslim kid born and raised in New York City. His parents are refugees from Iraq. His colleague, Daoud, is an aspiring actor who can only seem to get TV roles like “terrorist henchman.” His older brother, Mo, died two years ago, and Sikander (Sik) is still processing his grief and resentment. Sik is doing his best to help keep his family’s deli afloat when it is attacked one night by two rat-faced fellows who claim to be ancient demons. Things just get weirder from there.

  Soon, a strange disease grips New York City. (Spoiler alert: Plague gods gonna plague.) Sikander’s parents fall ill along with many others. In order to stop the sickness and save Manhattan, Sikander has to plunge into a world of ancient gods, demigods, and monsters, and find out the truth about his own secret powers. There will be tears and snarky jokes. There will be a badass ninja girl, a chariot pulled by big cats, and a demon with really bad breath. I can also guarantee you will not want the adventure to end. I know I didn’t!

  Welcome to the world of Mesopotamian myth as interpreted by the brilliantly creative, wonderfully offbeat mind of Sarwat Chadda. You may never want to leave!

  Mankind can number his days,
/>   Whatever he may achieve, it is only wind.

  Do you fear death on this occasion?

  Where is the strength of your heroic nature?

  —The Epic of Gilgamesh, translated by Stephanie Dalley

  “GIVE ME A HAND WITH THIS SHUTTER, DAOUD?” I asked, and not for the first time that night.

  Daoud raised his finger as he continued his phone conversation. “You’re kidding. From Hollywood? What time?” He checked his watch. “Cool. I’ll be there.”

  “At last.” I sighed as he put the phone away. It was creeping toward midnight, and we should have locked up the deli an hour ago. I tugged at the unyielding roll-down security shutter.

  Daoud flexed his biceps. “You need some real muscle behind this.” He grabbed the other handle.

  “On three…” I tightened my grip. “One…”

  “Three!”

  The slatted steel grille rattled down thunderously and slammed on the sidewalk. Daoud snapped on the padlock. “Yallah, cuz. I’ve got places to be.”

  Cuz? Daoud acted like he was one of the family, but he was just a guy my brother had brought home when they’d met in fifth grade, a decade ago. I’d never understood why Mo had liked him so much. Maybe it was because there weren’t many other Iraqi kids at school. Since then, Daoud had hardly been out of my life, but he was still no “cuz.”

  “Another party?” I asked.

  “Not all of us want to spend our lives grilling kebabs.”

  “Nothing haram about it. People gotta eat,” I replied. “So, who’s in town? Spielberg? The head honcho from Disney?”

  He grinned. “A big-shot casting agent out of LA. She’ll be attending the Hamilton after-party. That’s where I’ve got to be in exactly one hour.”

  We set to pulling the second shutter down. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you actually learned acting?” I asked. “And, I don’t know, appeared in something?”

  Daoud scowled. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was in Homeland. Twice.”

  “Yeah, and spent it with your face covered by a keffiyeh. What was the part again? Terrorist Henchman?”

  “Head Terrorist Henchman.” One big pull and the grille rattled down into place.

  I put on the padlock. “So when are you gonna play a hero?”

  Daoud laughed. “Guys like us don’t get to be heroes. You know that.”

  “Why? ’Cause you’re an Arab, or ’cause you’re a Muslim?”

  “Take your pick, cuz. Take your pick.”

  Why did Daoud still bother? I couldn’t understand it. How could he be happy with always being the bad guy?

  It made more sense to keep both of your feet on the hard concrete. In the real world.

  We reentered the deli from the rear, through the cramped kitchen and into the dining area. Mo’s didn’t look like much. The tables didn’t match and some of the chairs wobbled, but the place had sizzle. And I’m not just talking about the onions in the pan or the shawarma turning on the skewer, but the crowd. We were on the corner of Fifteenth and Siegel, so we got constant foot traffic. We specialized in Arab and Mediterranean, basically the best food in the world.

  We opened at six a.m. to fuel the office workers with fresh pita and Turkish coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in. Mid-morning brought the locals, who came for a chat and to break out the backgammon, or to just sit by the windows with a pot of mint tea and watch the rest of the world rush by.

  I took the late shift. Yeah, I know thirteen-year-olds aren’t supposed to work, but Mama and Baba needed the extra hands. Our block had plenty of pop-up music clubs and art galleries, and there was no better way to kick-start an evening than with a falafel sandwich topped with a spoonful of our famous Baghdad chili sauce. On good nights, our deli’s sizzle would become a blaze, and it felt like the whole city was in there with us.

  The trouble with sharing your home with a thousand people was it needed a serious wipe-down at the end of every day, and that was left to me and Daoud. But mostly me.

  I triple-locked the front door from the inside and left the keys on the countertop while Daoud continued to explain his career plan, for the thousandth time.

  “It’s not about talent—just look at the people who get all the parts—it’s about getting spotted. And you get spotted at parties. The right parties.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Look at this face, Sik. Just look at it.”

  I dipped the mop into the bucket for a soak. “I know what you look like, Daoud.”

  “Look. Really look.”

  Okay, I need to fess up. Daoud was stupidly handsome, the emphasis on both words. Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, a mop of wavy black hair, and a deep brow that only magnified his light brown eyes. His physique was gym-sculpted, his skin as flawless as only a three-hour daily cleansing routine could manage. He was more vain than a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills and blew most of his salary on top-of-the-line bodywash and Versace aftershave. Me? I liked smelling of sautéed onions.

  Daoud pointed to his chin. “I’ve only got another five years and then it’s over, Sik. I’ll be too old.”

  “Too old at twenty-five?”

  He sighed. “Twenty-one if you’re a girl.”

  “Is that why you wanted Botox gift certificates for Eid?”

  He double-checked himself in the window reflection. “Beauty’s got to be preserved.”

  I peered at him. “Is that a zit?”

  “What?” he exclaimed, horrified. “Where?”

  “Middle of your forehead. You can’t miss it.”

  He wailed and dashed off to the bathroom to inspect every single one of his pores.

  Finally, some peace. I dragged the bucket to the center of the room and got to work, sliding the mop over the floor in long, easy strokes.

  Mopping used to be Mo’s job. I’d be in bed, and the cleaning fluid’s citrus smell would rise through the apartment and I’d fall asleep to the bittersweet scent of lemons.

  We’d changed the brand once, but customers had complained that Mo’s no longer smelled as friendly, so we’d gone back to the lemon stuff. You couldn’t escape Mo—this was his deli.

  Photos of him plastered the wall, the biggest being of his high school graduation, right under the framed takbir, and alongside the Iraqi flag. He’d been born there, and though my parents had immigrated to the US when he was little, Iraq had always remained home for him. Which is why he went straight back there during his first college break. And the next and the next.

  I paused to look at the collage he’d made of his trips to places that were already ancient when Rome was just a village. There he was, grinning in front of the Ziggurat of Ur, sitting on a camel at the ruins of Nineveh, and dusty from his motorcycle trip to the brick mounds at Lagash, remnants of when the country had been known by its ancient name: Mesopotamia.

  The cradle of civilization. Yet as I looked at the photos of Mo helping out at the refugee camps, rebuilding bombed-out villages, and replanting farms, I couldn’t help but think of how that birthplace had suffered over the centuries. Why couldn’t it have been left in peace?

  I was in some of the pictures on the wall. Birthday shots, us dressed up for Halloween. Typical sibling stuff.

  The space wasn’t big—twenty-four feet by ten—but it displayed Mo’s life, from beginning to its end.

  But it was the flowers that really made it Mo’s. Being born near barren desert had made him appreciate plants all the more, which was why he’d chosen to major in botany. He’d started the local community garden down the block and preserved his favorites in frames, decorating the deli’s whitewashed walls with the brightest colors nature could provide. Roses ranging from the deepest crimson to the snowiest white ran above the windows. Lush purple orchids hung beside the explosive pink, gold, and orange petals of countless wildflowers.

  A car swept by, and its headlights stroked the far wall, stretching out the shadows, bringing them to life.

  The lemon scent, the photos, the flowers, the quietne
ss of the night, and the swaying shadows combined to bring him back. It was like my brother was sitting at that table.

  “Hey, Mo,” I said.

  Asalaamu alaikum, Yakhi. You should be in bed. School tomorrow.

  “And leave lock-up to Daoud? No way.” I sank the mop back into the bucket and gave it a twist before starting under the windows.

  Actually, shouldn’t you be crashing at Aaron’s? Wasn’t Thursday always game night with him and the other guys?

  “You know I don’t have time for that anymore, Mo. The deli needs—”

  There’s life outside the deli, Sik.

  “The deli suits me fine,” I snapped. I shoved the mop back into the bucket for a soak. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you were around to help out. When was the last time you mopped?”

  You tell me.

  “Two years, three months, and fourteen days.” As if I didn’t know. “So when are you coming back?”

  Come on, Sik.…

  “This place you’re staying, it must be some sort of paradise. Better than home?”

  You’ve got Daoud.

  “He was always your friend, not mine,” I said. “He’s moved into your room. Can you believe that?”

  That’s better than leaving it empty.

  “He takes your clothes. Remember that leather jacket? He wears it everywhere.”

  Why are you doing this, Sik?

  The memory flashed across my mind. The worst day of my life. Sitting near the landline with my parents as they learned what had happened. I knew it had to be bad news. Three a.m. phone calls are always bad news. Mo had been riding his motorcycle in the dark, a truck had swerved into his lane and…That night I had watched Mama and Baba grow old in an instant as their futures crumbled to dust.

  “Someone’s got to look after our folks,” I replied.

  And the garden? You looking after that?

  I scowled. “I’ll get around to it, inshallah. Maybe this weekend.”

  You haven’t weeded it in months.

  “Figures you would know that.”

  You know everything I know.

  “That’s not true. I don’t know why you went and never came back.”

  I had to. It was the right thing to do.