The first things Alex noticed about the chamber were the fancy tapestries that hung from the walls and the luxurious rugs on the stone floors. Then he realized that a three-foot-high stone pool in the center of the room was providing the light, a ghostly glow rising from the water inside.

His head swam as he looked at the luminous liquid. Somewhere above was the city and the sunlight he knew, but it seemed painfully distant. He felt confined and constricted by this place. By this tomb.

A slight movement in the back of the room caught his eye. There, on a rough-hewn throne, sat the Stung Man.

“There he is,” whispered Ren, her lips barely giving shape to the air leaving her lungs.

Alex tried to answer but failed.

Unlike the mummy clad in ragged scraps at the museum, this man was now clothed in regal robes. The angry welts and stings were still there, but the rest of his skin looked almost normal now. He rose to meet them. “I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, but only Alex understood.

“Is he speaking, like, Egyptian?” whispered Ren.

Ancient Egyptian, realized Alex, still clutching his amulet in a death grip.

It was terrifying, of course, to hear a dead man speak. The first ice-water shock of fear hit Alex and his knees flexed, but he didn’t run. He’d come all this way, and one word kept him there.

Mom.

What if she was nearby? What if she was in a chamber somewhere in this terrible tomb?

She’d done everything for him. He wouldn’t abandon her.

But now what?

I’m in a room with a walking corpse. There’s no denying it. He’s right in front of me. Now what?

He scanned the room, getting his bearings, readying for a fight. In between two tapestries, he saw a vertical gash in the stone. There were raised white columns on either side, and the gap between them was painted a reddish orange: a false door.

The Stung Man stepped down into the room. His movements showed none of the stiffness from before. He moved fluidly, Alex noted uneasily, like the master thief he had once been. “Do you like it?” the Stung Man asked, gesturing around the room.

“What is he saying?” said Ren, her voice a mix of desperation and anger.

The Stung Man frowned, realizing he had only half the audience.

He turned to Alex.

“But you understand me, don’t you?”

Alex managed a weak nod. He understood him perfectly, not just his words but also his intent. With every word, and every step, the Stung Man edged closer. He had reached the large, glowing pool, and he tapped his fingers lightly on the edge as he began to walk around it.

“I know about you,” said Alex, his voice finally returning.

“Oh yes? And what is it you know?”

He can understand me, too. Alex continued. “I know how you … I know what happened to you.”

“Do you?”

Alex nodded nervously. The Stung Man was halfway around the pool. With every step the robed figure took, the amulet grew warmer in Alex’s hand, and the pulse grew stronger in his head.

“Perhaps you know the story,” said the Stung Man. “But do you really imagine you know what it was like, crouched there in that hot, dark cave?”

Alex’s imagination failed him. How could he concentrate with a predator approaching? This man is going to consume us.

He could feel Ren practically vibrating with fear.

“The stings I could feel but not see?” the Stung Man continued. “The wounds in my skin and the venom spreading like burning oil under it? You think you know? The stings that would not stop, even after I’d fallen: on my face, my neck, the soles of my feet?”

“Do you understand him?” whispered Ren, tugging at Alex’s arm. “What is he saying?”

Alex knew how terrified she must be, but he didn’t have time to stop and translate. He had to try something, had to stall him.

“I know why you did it, too,” he called.

The Stung Man tilted his head. “Oh yes?”

“I know that if it wasn’t for the pharaoh, you would’ve been planting crops not stealing jewels. I know you mostly stole from him.”

A familiar rattling noise started up. The four canopic jars were nestled in the corners of the room.

“And you think that makes me a hero?”

“I don’t think it makes you a villain.”

The Stung Man let out a quick, sharp breath, amused. He was around the pool now. “You misunderstand me, little boy.”

“I read it …” Alex began, but the towering figure paid him no mind.

“This world took everything from me!” the Stung Man shouted. Alex jumped at the sudden volume. “Everything! And now, I intend to take it back!”

Alex heard four loud pops and turned in time to see the alabaster lid hop off the nearest canopic jar. As it fell to the floor, a stream of scorpions — ten, twenty, a hundred — began pouring from the jar’s open neck. Around the room, the same thing was happening with the other jars. The rattling was quickly replaced by the clicking and clacking of scorpions.

Alex’s mouth fell open in horror as Ren’s opened to scream.

“Don’t worry about my little friends,” said the Stung Man.

The scorpions spread out in a thick, writhing line along the sides of the room. They spilled out into the passageway but didn’t advance inward. They climbed over each other, claws out, stingers poised: a living border to prevent any attempt at escape.

“You see?” said the Stung Man. “They’re just here to do a job. I’m the one you have to worry about.”

He was closer now, too close.

“Use the Book of the Dead!” called Ren.

But Alex had another plan. He tried the move he’d used before with the amulet. Squeezing the scarab with his left hand, he pushed his right hand forward. A phantom wind rose up and the tapestries against the far wall flapped wildly as the water in the pool formed waves that slopped over the sides. But the Stung Man kept coming. His movement was slowed a little but not nearly enough. He smiled.

“I am awake now, child.” He pulled his left hand back inside the heavy crimson sleeve of his robe. “And I have all kinds of tricks up my sleeve.”

When his hand slid back out, it had transformed into a massive scorpion stinger. The barb was as long and sharp as a carving knife. A large drop of amber venom glistened on the tip.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” Ren shouted.

Unable to step backward because of the skittering line of scorpions, she took a few hops to the side.

Alex’s stomach twisted with fear. He scanned the room for some small projectile to launch and redoubled the wind, but the Stung Man continued to advance.

“Alex, the Book!” Ren shouted again. She yanked the backpack off of him.

“Okay, okay!” said Alex. His voice shook. He hadn’t forgotten the plan. He just didn’t think it was a very good one. He’d counted on the amulet, but it wasn’t enough. Alex had led them — led Ren! — to their deaths, and there was very little he could do about it. Twin jets of fear and adrenaline coursed through him. There was only one thing left to try. He pulled out a round plastic container that held the scrolls.

The Stung Man stopped in his tracks. “You have the Prayers?”

“That’s right, tomb breath!” called Alex, trying to sound brave.

The Stung Man gave Alex a wolfish grin. “I see I am not the only thief here.”

Alex ignored the jab. With the exhibition closed, Todtman was in charge of the Book’s safekeeping. They were just borrowing the scrolls.

The question, the Big Question: Had they borrowed the right one?

There were over two hundred spells, many dealing with obscure aspects of the afterlife. The spell for “Not Being Scalded by Hot Water in the Afterlife” wasn’t going to do them much good. And it seemed a little late for the famous “Declaration of the Soul’s Innocence,” too. Todtman believed that the right spell would send the Stung Man back. Alex had brought three, and he now realized just how ridiculous that was. They didn’t have time for three spells! What was the Stung Man going to do, watch a movie while he tried them all?

He would get one chance. One. His fingers trembling, he reached for the ancient scrolls.

“Oh, but it’s just a few of them,” said the Stung Man, clearly disappointed. He circled toward the friends and they circled away. He was clearly enjoying toying with them.

“Yeah, guess which one,” said Alex, pulling the first roll free from the canister, his unsteady fingers nearly tearing what looked to be very old papyrus. He willed his mind to slow down and consider his choices. His first choice: “To help the soul rejoin the body in the afterlife.”

No, he thought.

The Stung Man took a step closer.

He threw the scroll down. This soul had already rejoined its corpse — and not in the afterlife. He tugged the second scroll free.

No time to hesitate, no margin for error.

He filled his lungs, preparing for the chant.

“I’d love to hear your choice,” said the Stung Man. “I’m quite sure it’s wrong. But I can’t take that chance. I just got back, you see.”

And with that, he flicked his hand. The scroll yanked free from Alex’s grasp and flew across the room. The first syllable of the chant — a long, resonant “Hemmm” — died on his lips.

The scroll hit the wall and fell into the corner, landing on the backs of a few dozen angry scorpions. “I’ll get it!” called Ren, not sounding at all convinced.

Alex was amazed: She’s acting. At a time like this: full of fear, in over her head, unarmed, understanding nothing that was being said, she was doing her part.

“There’s another spell, you know,” the Stung Man said to him. “It is for ‘Washing the Mouth of Foolish Words.’ Perhaps I’ll recite it for you. Of course, I’ll kill you first — it is for the dead.”

The Stung Man struck out with his left hand. The stinger flew toward Alex on the end of a long, segmented tail. Alex ducked, bad dodgeball memories filling his mind. The stinger shot over his shoulder and slammed into the wall behind him.

Alex turned in time to see the stinger draw back toward him. He squawked and ducked again, touching a hand down for balance and missing a scorpion by inches.

“Impressive reflexes,” said the Stung Man. “But it doesn’t matter.” He reached out with his right hand and slowly raised it. Across the room, what felt like invisible metal bands tightened around Alex’s body, locking him in place. It was the same thing Al-Dab’u had done to Todtman. But Todtman had spent years preparing for this sort of thing. Alex had spent days. All he could do was watch as his body was slowly lifted off the floor. His feet dangled in the air, his heart raced, his lungs pressed inward, and he struggled for breath. He felt his mind flicker on the edge of collapse.

The ancient menace walked slowly toward him. His right hand was stretched out in front of him, holding Alex in the air. His stinger was cocked back, ready for the death blow.

The bands around him tightened and Alex’s vision began to narrow. He viewed his last seconds as if through a tunnel.

“Got it!” yelled Ren, standing on tiptoes and shaking the last few scorpions off the scroll.

The Stung Man’s head whipped around.

“How do you read this, anyway?” said Ren, squinting at the odd symbols. “This one looks like a snake.”

“Give that to me, little girl!” said the Stung Man. He dropped his right hand and Alex fell to the ground with a thump.

“Oh, wait, I remember now,” said Ren. “Doctor Todtman said something about …”

Alex recognized her bluff, but the Stung Man didn’t know her so well. He took a few long steps toward her and pointed the stinger at her stomach. “Give the scroll to me and I promise to kill you quickly.” It was probably lucky Ren couldn’t understand his words.

“Hemmm!” she chanted, imitating Alex.

Her imitation was so good that it took the Stung Man a moment to realize that Alex was chanting again, too. It wasn’t until the second word — “Nesoot” — that he spun back around.

Ren echoed him: “Nesoot!” The Stung Man turned again. Alex and Ren both had scrolls now.

The Stung Man gave a great bellow of rage.

Alex’s voice cracked, but he couldn’t stop chanting.

“For the Tilling of the Rich Soil of the Afterlife …”

A farmer’s prayer.

Even in the afterlife — especially in the afterlife — the Stung Man couldn’t escape who he really was.

The Stung Man growled like an animal. “Say no more!” he commanded, but his voice, so oily before, grew thicker with each word.

The stinger shot out again, flying through the air toward Ren. Her eyes wide with fear, she scanned the floor for a safe spot to step as time ran out. The barb struck not her but the scroll, punching a hole straight through and leaving Ren frozen with shock. The Stung Man pulled the stinger back toward him, but the yellow paper ripped in half as he did. He didn’t know exactly what paper was — the modern form hadn’t been invented when he was entombed. Nor, for that matter, had museum gift shops that sold reproduction scrolls. But he knew something wasn’t right. He knew that wasn’t brittle papyrus his stinger had just torn through.

He turned to face Alex, who continued to steadily chant each word and symbol from the real scroll that had been hidden in his backpack the whole time.

“Treachery!” called the Stung Man. He rushed toward Alex, but his muscles aged and tightened with each step. He kept going, driven by the indomitable will that had allowed him to cling to the edge of the afterlife for millennia. He pointed the stinger at Alex. The point was still sharp, but the bulb had dried and hollowed.

As Alex chanted, the writing seemed to come alive on the page. The lines glowed and the symbols danced, and he watched transfixed as his mouth gave voice to the glittering text. The Stung Man was five feet away, four feet. The skin pulled tight on his skull, threatening to split. Three feet away. The hand that reached out for the scroll was shriveled and leathery.

The Stung Man was two feet away when Alex finished the chant. The dried corpse toppled and fell. Alex stepped back and let it, the glowing text fading in his hands.

All around them, the scorpions were sucked back into their jars like so much click-clacking smoke. The alabaster lids were pulled on last, closing tight. The light from the pool began to fade. Out in the passageway, the light began to fade as well.

Ren rushed over. “Are you okay?”

Alex nodded. He was getting a major headache, but it didn’t seem worth mentioning. They both stared down at the Stung Man, laid out before them, a mummy once more.

“We’re alive,” said Alex.

Standing in the growing dark, Ren paused to consider the sheer improbability of the statement.

“For the moment,” she said, clicking on her flashlight. The remains of a smashed scorpion were smeared on the lens, casting on odd sort of bat signal on the ceiling of the chamber.

“The doctor …” she said.

Alex nodded. The last time they’d seen Todtman, he was wounded and outnumbered.

The two friends headed back down the passageway as fast as they dared, their eyes still wide, their pulses still racing. They knew there was danger in the darkness.