Sodium streetlights and the passing headlights of other cars briefly illuminated the interior of the cab. Tilting her head to one side, Sophie focused on the homeless man, her enhanced senses taking in every detail. Surely this couldn’t be the person they had come to London to see, the immortal called Gilgamesh, the oldest human on the planet. Nicholas had called him a king, Palamedes had said he was insane; he looked neither, just a harmless old vagrant wearing too many clothes and in need of a haircut and beard trim. But if the last few days had taught her anything, it was that no one was what they seemed.

“Well, this is pleasant,” Gilgamesh said, folding his hands in his lap. He smiled happily. He spoke English with a trace of an indefinable accent, vaguely Middle Eastern. “I always say you never know when you wake in the morning how the day will end. I like that: keeps you young.”

“And how old are you?” Josh immediately asked.

“Old,” Gilgamesh said simply, and grinned. “Older than I look, but not as old as I feel.”

Random images flickered into Sophie’s head. These were the Witch’s memories. Joan of Arc had taught her how to ignore them and dismiss the constant buzzing voices and noises she heard in her head, but this time Sophie deliberately let her guard down…

Gilgamesh, ageless and unchanging.

Gilgamesh, standing tall and proud, a ruler, in the costumes of a dozen ages and as many civilizations: Sumerian and Akkadian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman, and then the fur and leather of Gaul and Britain.

Gilgamesh the warrior, leading Celts and Vikings, Rus and Huns into battle against men and monsters.

Gilgamesh the teacher, in the plain white robes of a priest, oak and mistletoe in his hands.

Sophie’s eyes blinked silver and she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You are the Ancient of Days.”

Gilgamesh drew in a quick breath. “It has been a long time since anyone called me that,” he said very slowly. “Who told you that?” There was a note almost of fear in his voice.

The girl shook her head. “I just knew.”

Josh smiled. “Are you as old as the pyramids?”

“Older, much, much older,” Gilgamesh said happily.

“The king’s age is measured in millennia and not centuries,” Palamedes offered from the front of the car.

Sophie guessed that Gilgamesh wasn’t much taller than Josh, but his thickly bundled clothing-coats worn on top of coats, multiple fleeces, T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts-bulked him out, and his mass of wild hair and ragged beard made him look like an old man. Eyeing him closely, trying to see beyond the hair, Sophie discovered that he reminded her of her father, with his high forehead, long straight nose and bright blue eyes peering out of a deeply tanned face. She thought he looked like he was around the same age, too: midforties.