Chapter 1 – Handle With Care

GREATER LONDON, DALSTON – GAMES WORKSHOP

A FEW YEARS EARLIER…

Again, the all too familiar bitterness of his defeat hung in the air, but it seemed that Peter would still not be deterred. "Two hundred?"

There was a faint hint of movement at his back and then a hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Come on. It's getting late."

Peter twitched slightly at Robert's touch. He was right, of course, Peter reflected. Perhaps he should have called it quits after the first loss. But it was too late for that now and, standing across the table from him, Claire revelled in her victory as she claimed the spoils for herself.

"One hundred and fifty?"

With a broad smile of satisfaction and an air of supreme smugness and superiority, Claire's gaze was firmly fixed on the prize in her hand – a small plush toy of Zoidberg from Futurama. Without looking up, she said, "Maybe another time."

Robert gave Peter's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "She's right, you know. Don't –"

But it was already too late, and Peter's hand was already reaching into his bag. When he drew Nibbler out, Robert slowly shook his head, incredulous at his brother's stubbornness.

"… and if you think I'm getting you anything for your birthday, you can forget it," Robert continued as they both headed for the door. "You have no idea how long it took to win those from that claw machine."

"All I need is one win."

Back at the gaming table and placing the last of her Orks in their travel case, Claire snorted back a laugh. "Good luck with that!" She gave a wave as Peter looked back – giving him one last look at Nibbler before passing out of sight.

Peter's pace slowed at the taunt, but Robert dragged him on by the strap of his bag. "You need to stop letting her get into your head like that," he said as they stepped out onto the street. "Her ego's big enough without you inflating it anymore."

The sky outside was growing steadily darker, with inky black clouds seeping in here and there. Even at such late an hour, the streets were not as crowded as they were earlier that day, but neither was it deserted. But when they arrived at the overground station they found it almost packed with commuters, hoping, as they were, to catch the last train home.

George's exasperated sigh was unmistakable against the hustle and bustle of the crowds. "And to think, we could have missed all of this if it wasn't for that bloody game."

GREATER LONDON – HAGGERSTON

HOME

With the strap of his Warhammer travel case digging into his shoulder, Peter's exhaustion was clear to see – and hear – to everyone they met on the stairs leading back to their flat.

"I bet you anything it was the Thompson brothers on the third floor," he said between breaths as they passed the broken-down elevator bearing its 'OUT OF ORDER' sign, and then up yet another flight of stairs.

"More than likely," Robert agreed, gripping the parcel in his hands tightly as he kept a close eye on the steps.

"And they pretty much admitted to shooting Mr Lambert's car with that air rifle."

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure it's not easy to convict a pair of six-year-olds," Robert replied, "but it sure would be nice to be rid of them. Not that Mr Shan will do anything, of course," he added. "He's too afraid of their father to do anything about them."

Peter took a brief pause as they finally stepped off onto their floor, allowing himself a moment to get his breath back before continuing. He could still make out the graffiti on poor old Mrs Mercer's door as he walked on – not that Mr Shan's son had done a bad job of scrubbing it off. With every door in the building, bar one, having suffered the same, he sure had his work cut out for him that day.

Further ahead, Robert was fumbling about in his pocket for the door key as he reached their flat. As he caught up, Robert was already inside, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket. "Well, I don't have long," Peter heard him say as he walked inside. "I'll have to have a quick bite to eat and head off."

Setting his bags down in the hall, Peter shut the door behind him as Robert headed off to the kitchen. But, as he shrugged off his jacket, however, he heard a sound which was highly out of place when it came to his brother – the microwave.

"And I thought microwaved food didn't agree with you?" Peter said as he walked into the kitchen.

"It doesn't," Robert said irritably, "but I don't have much of a choice."

Robert was still annoyed with him, he knew, watching as he set about the kitchen, muttering under his breath as he prepared for dinner. Peter couldn't blame him; they would have been back far earlier if he had heeded his brother's advice. But then again, Robert didn't have to stay either, he reflected. Robert had only met him there after going shopping for their father's birthday – and even that was so that he didn't walk home alone. London was London, after all.

"So did you get it?"

"I did," Robert said as he took his dinner out of the microwave. Peter's glasses clouded over slightly against the steam; the smell of the chicken carbonara filled the room as Robert tore off the film lid.

"And?"

"Well, I think it's fair to say that he'll like it." The tone of Robert's voice softened with the change in subject.

"It's Ancient Egyptian. Of course, he's gonna like it," Peter said as he followed him through to the dining room.

"I said I think it's Ancient Egyptian." Robert sat down, leaving his meal to cool for a minute or two before digging in. "The lady that I bought it from said that it used to belong to her husband's father. Said that he brought it back with him from Germany after World War Two. Even showed me a picture of him and his army buddies with stuff they had looted. Mostly watches, Nazi mementoes and little things like that."

"So it's stolen?"

"No, bought and paid for. Even got a receipt to prove it." Then, he added, "Besides, it might not even be real. We still have to wait and see what Professor Myers says first."

"And if it is?"

"Then it will most definitely take dad's mind off the state of your GCSEs for a while. If not the rest of the year."

With his brother having set off to work, Peter took his Warhammer back to his room and then returned to the dining room, where Robert had put down their father's present and the rest of his shopping. And, whilst Robert had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to open it, Peter just couldn't help himself. He did – to his thinking, anyway – own half of it. Not that he had been too impressed with the price – two hundred and thirty pounds.

For such a price, he had, at first, refused to pay his share. His suggestions: a book, a DVD, a jigsaw puzzle, or something else – anything that didn't cost them an arm and a leg – were all rejected in the face of his brother. He simply would not hear of it; reminding Peter that their father found little interest in such things.

"It's his sixtieth, Peter!" he had said, rather firmly, when he had brought the subject up earlier that year. "He deserves better than that."

"Then what do you think we should get him?"

"Well, it's dad…"

And so, the hunt had begun.

It, unfortunately, was not an easy one.

And it was only when, in desperation, one of their father's colleagues finally pointed them in the right direction.

"Oh, no, no, no. You won't find anything like that in a common charity shop," Professor Myers had laughed when they had told him. "No. What you need is an antique shop or a showroom. Most likely a high-end one if you're looking for anything for your father."

"Told you," Peter said shortly, glancing up at his brother.

"But that doesn't mean that you won't find anything," Myers said. "There are many collections in the Museum which have been brought from individual collectors and dealers. Even the commercial market. Both your father and I have done our fair share of cataloguing artefacts from places such as these."

Providing them with a list of locations he knew of, as well as promising to send them some more when he got the chance, Myers had wished them luck. And whilst his list of antique showrooms and dealers (both high-end and low-end) had proven useful, Robert found – what little Egyptian artefacts there were – to be far outside of their price range. But, fortunately, luck had shone upon them both when Robert had finally struck gold at a car boot sale earlier that day.

And now, one hundred and fifteen pounds out of pocket, Peter sat down and began to unwrap the present. Several meters of bubble wrap later and he looked down at something which was undoubtedly Egyptian in origin.

Having been dragged around museums for most of his childhood and hearing his father drone on about all of the latest developments coming out of the ancient world – though not by choice – the hieroglyphs were unmistakable. With a father like his, it was almost a crime not to recognise them. His father's entire world revolved around Egyptology: almost fifty years spent devoted to the field – with the majority of his life spent in them, digging for artefacts all over the Middle East and North Africa. It had only been upon meeting his mother, and thereafter Robert's conception, that they had decided to settle down in London, where both had quickly taken up positions at the British Museum.

It looked like a canopic jar. He had seen several of them at the museum whilst he had been waiting for his mother and father to finish work. He couldn't remember which god or goddess' head was on top, but it certainly looked to be in a far better condition than those he had seen before. It bore only a few cracks and chips, with its surface smooth to the touch as he ran his fingers over it.

But then, Peter leaned back in his chair. It was only a sudden thought – and one which eerily sounded like his father – but what if it was real? Could he be touching a piece of history? If it was, there were likely to be two outcomes. One, his father would not be at all happy with him not wearing any protective equipment. And two, Robert would be right, and it would most definitely take his mind off of Peter's GCSEs – no matter what grades he got.

On the other hand, Professor Myers still had yet to inspect it for himself, so there was a chance that it may not even be real at all. And so, with his father's reprimanding voice still in his ear, he began to wrap it back up. Slowly but surely he reeled in the bubble wrap, gently turning the jar over and over in his hands, his every movement careful and –

CLICK

It was an unusual, almost metallic noise, and so faint that it was almost lost over the rustling of the bubble wrap. Peter froze; carefully resting the jar down with the slightest of movements. "In no uncertain terms." Those had been his brother's words. He didn't even hesitate; didn't even think… but the curiosity he felt had been too hard to ignore.

CLICK

There it was again. Far more distinct this time. Peter swallowed, his eyes still fixed upon the half-wrapped jar. It could have been the lid, he thought. Maybe too much handling had shaken it loose. After being left buried in the desert for who knows how many years and then dug up, shipped to Germany and then looted and smuggled into the country, perhaps its age was beginning to show. But none of that would have counted for diddly-squat in the eyes of his brother – least of all to his father.

It clicked once, twice, three times more as he watched it. What had he done? And why were the clicking sounds metallic? He couldn't make out much through the bubble wrap, but the slight shuffle of movement that followed was clear to see. Peter backed away, knocking over his chair as it moved again. The third movement it made, however, was far more violent and the lid of the jar fell off and landed on the table.

The screech that followed chilled him to the bone.

Clutching the back of the sofa, Peter's gasp turned to horror as the symbiote slithered into view. And it did not so much as hesitate to strike as it fixed him with its gaze. Peter only just managed to raise his arms in time; feeling its slimy, scaly flesh against his fingers as he caught it, but even that, he found, was just one half of the battle. For even as he attempted to dig in his nails and crush it into submission, it was quickly slipping through, writhing and squirming against his ever-failing grasp.

When it eventually struck, everything faded to black… and that was when he heard the voice.

"Sekhmet! You dare stand against me!"