TITLE: The Egyptian Playbook of the Dead
GENRE: YA urban fantasy
Running away, even to the mortal world, was harder than I'd expected.
Voices bleated around me as I entered the Detroit International airport from the jetway. I could have deciphered the jumble of Arabic and English and French, but that would remind me what I was running from. It was easier to follow the crowd. The sheep.
Baa, I muttered as a particularly large couple jostled around me.
I gripped my carry-on--considerably lightened, since they'd confiscated the shampoo and toothpaste in Cairo--and waited as the other passengers claimed their luggage. I knew where mine was. I could just catch its faint odor of leather and dust as it circled the far side of the belt. I edged closer, and an airport worker shot me a suspicious look and pulled out a radio. With a prickle of sweat I focused on the inner circuits of the radio, and a moment later, the guard tapped the device in frustration and hurried away for a replacement. My suitcases popped through the flaps from the other side. I snatched them off the belt and headed for the customs line marked "non-U.S. residents."
Like the security guard, the eyes of the customs agents lingered on me, the smell of mistrust reeking from their skin. I didn't need English to understand that. I shifted under their gaze and straightened the suit I'd swiped off a student passed out drunk in an alley. I felt unclean.