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Chapters (52)
  1. Title
  2. Copyright
  3. About the Book
  4. About the Author
  5. Also By
  6. Contents
  7. Dedication
  8. Roll Call
  9. A Brief History of the Time Wars
  10. Jane
  11. Luke
  12. Matthew
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. 9
  22. 10
  23. 11
  24. 12
  25. 13
  26. 14
  27. 15
  28. 16
  29. 17
  30. 18
  31. 19
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. 24
  37. 25
  38. 26
  39. 27
  40. 28
  41. 29
  42. 30
  43. 31
  44. 32
  45. 33
  46. 34
  47. 35
  48. 36
  49. 37
  50. Epilogue
  51. Author’s Note
  52. A Note on Recruitment

He opened his mouth to tell her about the jackal-headed figure on the mountain, and then realised, just in time, that possibly this was not information that would be enthusiastically welcomed by someone stuck in a tomb all on her own. And besides, what would he say? What could he say without earning himself a spell in psycho?

‘Well, never mind that. The important thing is that they’ve caught them. A few minutes to mop up and get the stuff back into the tomb and then we can all call it a night. Good news, eh?’

Silence.

He persevered. ‘And Matthew’ll be fine, I guarantee it. They’re not going to let anything happen to him. Grint’s a shit but he’ll keep an eye on him.’

Silence.

‘Jane – are you there? Stop messing about.’

Silence from the tomb.

He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. ‘Jane? Can you hear me? Jane?’

He thought of the larger-than-life figure. He Who is Upon the Mountain. Crouching over the tomb. The tomb that contained Jane.

Swallowing hard on rising panic, he said, ‘Jane. Please. Answer me. There’s some bad shit going on here. You’ve got to get out of there. Right now.’

At long last she answered, and her voice was ragged with fear. ‘I can’t.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t? You must.’

She was whispering. ‘Luke, I can’t. He’s behind me.’

12

12

It was at that moment that Jane realised she’d never actually been frightened before. Yes, there had been moments of what had been, compared to this, mild anxiety over school performances, or minor apprehension over new places or meeting new people. She’d experienced a slight concern over destroying her grandmother’s seagull – that was all. Because this was fear. This was all-enveloping, paralysing, overwhelming terror. This was the fear that all future fears would be measured against and found to be lesser.

She realised she’d stopped breathing. Stopped everything, actually. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. She could only stand, petrified. Frozen. Knowing – just knowing – that something was standing behind her. Something unknown. She waited to feel the weight of a cold, dead hand on her shoulder. To be dragged, living, into the realms of the dead. To be devoured by a trapped and vengeful spirit.

A second dragged by – as long as a week. And then another. For her, time had almost stopped. It was hard to believe that out there, seconds were flying by on their way to becoming minutes, while in here . . .