Now this tomb had been disturbed for at least the second or third time. How was she any different from the ghouls who had picked over the treasures so carefully placed here to ease his passing into the afterlife? Suppose that because of that – because the meticulous placing of each object had been disturbed – he hadn’t made it. Or perhaps the goods themselves hadn’t been rich enough to ensure his safe passage. Only one room in his tomb was decorated and the paintings on the walls were very hurried and very basic. Perhaps the instructions for his passage to the afterlife were incomplete. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to complete the journey and was now forced to linger here forever, bitter and resentful, trapped in the cold and dark between the two worlds. Craving the unattainable warmth and light of the afterlife. Unable to return to the world he had left. Seeking revenge against the people who hadn’t cared enough. A minor king who did not yet know he was destined to become the most famous pharaoh of them all. Greater even than mighty Ramses the Great. Or the female pharaohs, Hatshepsut and Cleopatra.

And even when he was discovered – would be discovered – the indignities would continue. Howard Carter would rip his mummy apart in an effort to pry him loose from his sarcophagus. His grave goods would be scooped up and taken away. He himself would be removed from his own tomb, to dwell in a museum. He would later be returned, but after the destruction of the wonderful Seti II tomb in that infamous terrorist attack, his mummy now resided permanently in a purpose-built exhibit in the Cairo Museum. How did he feel about that?

It actually hurt her to drag in a breath. There was a dizzying sense of standing on the brink of some yawning chasm. The world whirled around her. A dreadful cold began to seep up from the ground. Despite being underground, the air moved around her. Something said her name . . .

By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wicked this way comes.

‘Jane? Talk to me. What’s happening?’

Luke’s voice recalled her. Hardly daring to move her lips, as if any movement she made would bring whatever it was down upon her, she managed to whisper, ‘Luke. It’s here.’

‘What is?’

The words tumbled over each other. ‘Something . . . I didn’t see . . . something moved. It’s behind me. Something’s in here with me. Luke . . .’

Her voice trailed away. Pushing aside the still vivid picture of the darkness-shaped jackal squatting over the tomb, he said, as calmly as he could, ‘What is, Jane? What’s in there with you? Tell me.’

‘It’s him. He’s here. He’s awake.’

‘Who’s awake?’

‘The king.’ Her voice was barely a whisper, but Luke heard her clearly enough. Striving for calm, common sense, he said, ‘No. No, he’s not. Really, he’s not.’

‘He is.’

‘Where?’