The Thief
To say the last few days had been eventful, would’ve been the understatement of the century.
To start: someone almost destroyed the Egyptian section of the British Museum, and Zara didn’t need many guesses to figure out who was behind that. She’d been following Steven anyway – partially hoping to catch a glimpse of Marc Spector in action, and partially (though she’d never admit it out loud) to protect Steven – and had followed him to work that fateful night. The commotion had left many questions unanswered (for example, who the hell was summoning jackals), but all she knew was that although Steven Grant had walked into that museum, he was not the man she saw walk out. His demeanour had totally transformed as he’d stalked out of the museum doors, with confidence and the kind of seriousness only the military could instil emanating off the man in waves. She’d watched from the shadows as Marc Spector had pulled out his phone in the middle of the street, closely followed by the buzzing of her own.
A message from none other than Steven Grant:
I’m sorry but I can’t see you anymore. Don’t contact me again.
In one swift motion, Marc Spector had deposited his phone back in his pocket, and strode off down the street. In one swift motion, he’d botched her plan yet again. Zara had to fight the urge not to walk up behind him and smack him upside the head. The man was nothing if not efficient, infuriatingly so. There was a reason she’d told Sekhmet that these mercenaries were all cut from the same cloth. And now, the goddess would never let her hear the end of it.
Then there was the matter of the storage locker: fuelled by a renewed urgency to find the scarab (and, if she was honest, a significant amount of spite), Zara proceeded to follow Marc Spector to his next location, a storage facility on the other side of the Thames. She watched him go in, waited, and then waited some more, until she was sure he’d left and wasn’t coming back. Then, Zara exercised a talent she’d not used since she’d left her old line of work.
She broke in.
All it took was a little elbow grease, mixed with some mild submission of the poor young man at the front desk, rifling through files until she found the locker under the name Spector, and a whole lot of trying to figure out which goddamn key was the right one. But she got there in the end, and it was the effort that counted. The thought made her laugh a little as she shut the door behind her. Yeah, she thought. Because Sekhmet is really big on participation medals.
Turning on the lights, Zara couldn’t help but feel a mild disappointment – the room was practically empty. “Come on, Marc Spector,” she drawled, shaking her head. “You could’ve at least had some cool shit in here for me to steal.” But alas, the room was mostly bare – save for a few things here and there, plus a nice big duffel bag sitting atop a military cot that looked like it’d seen better days. Efficient, and boring. Typical.
The positive to this, of course, was that finding the scarab was easier than taking candy from a baby. The golden compass felt cool as her fingers closed around it. She’d expected it to weigh more.
Well done, the voice echoed through her skull, and Zara felt that all-too-familiar presence behind her. I knew you would not fail.
Zara turned to face the goddess, Sekhmet’s golden eyes watching her intently. “What now?”
Now, that scarab must be taken to a place it can be safely hidden from Ammit’s disciples, for good. Sekhmet stepped forward. And we must move quickly. Something tells me Marc Spector does not like to take chances, leaving his things in one place for too long.
“It won’t do him any good, even when he does catch on,” Zara felt a smirk tug on the corner of her lips. “He’ll suspect Harrow before he suspects me. And by the time he realises, if he even does – ”
We will be long gone. The goddess nodded, stepping forward. Now come, Avatar. The great sands of Egypt await the return of their goddess.
* * *
The one thing that no one ever tells you when you sign up to be the avatar of an Egyptian god – they literally never let you sleep.
Marc had taken exactly one step through the door of Steven’s apartment when Khonshu’s voice reverberated through his skull. Marc. You must go back.
“What?” Marc muttered, suddenly snapping to attention. “Why?”
Someone is stealing the scarab.
The form of the moon god appeared before him, towering over him in Steven’s little flat. “Well?” Marc interrogated, alarmed. “Who is it? Who’s stealing it?”
I cannot see. Khonshu admitted, which seemed to be a great hit to his pride. Some greater power is clouding my vision. But there can only be one answer.
“Harrow.” Marc felt his stomach drop to his feet. Could anything go right for him tonight? “He must’ve followed me from the museum.”
The power of Ammit is concealing him from me. But there is no other. Khonshu stepped forward, insistent. We must stop him.
Marc nodded, accepting fully that his night was not over yet. Steven’s sleep would have to wait. Without another word, he walked out the door, summoned the suit, and took off into the night.
* * *
Too late.
“Damn it!”
Marc slammed his hands against the wall, frustration welling up in his chest so much so that it was overflowing. Khonshu loomed behind him, and the god was infuriatingly calm. He almost would’ve preferred it if Khonshu had been yelling, too.
Marc forced himself to calm, scanning the room. The strangest thing was, aside from the missing scarab from his duffel bag, there was no indication that anyone had been here at all. He didn’t pick Arthur Harrow for an expert thief, and Ammit’s most zealous disciple had already shown he had a taste for theatrics. Still, if Khonshu hadn’t sensed a presence in this place, it could’ve taken him days to realise the scarab was gone.
The thought made his stomach turn.
“Oh my days, where am I?”
Oh, come on. The voice arose, and he turned to see his mirror image in the reflective panels of the walls. Except it wasn’t him. Steven was looking around frantically, his hands clasped in front of him. His voice was incredulous. “Oh hello, man in the mirror. I was wondering when you’d pop up again.”
“Steven,” Marc stepped forward, towards his wayward reflection. “Go back to sleep.”
“What’s going on?” Steven stammered, a mix of awareness and panic emerging on his face. “Why can’t I move? Why – where am I?”
“You gave me the body,” Marc explained, trying to force his voice to be composed. “So I could save us, in the museum. And I’m going to need it for a while.”
“You – you’re controlling this?” Steven tried to step back, but he may as well have been stuck in quicksand. “You give my body back! Give it back, now!”
Marc shook his head, glancing at Khonshu behind him. “Steven, you need to listen to me – ”
“What the hell is that?” Steven exclaimed, recognition lighting his eyes like a flare. “That – that thing was in my dream! He called me a worm!”
Khonshu bristled behind him, and Marc interjected before the god could do more damage. But this conversation was already getting out of hand. He couldn’t risk Steven taking the body – not now. “Steven, you weren’t supposed to see any of this.”
“You say that like it makes this all better,” Steven’s voice rose, and he tried to push forward. “You tell me what’s going on, now! Who are you?”
“Fine, fine!” Marc had to force his voice back to calm, and the effort was considerable. This could not get worse, not now. Not with so much at stake. “I’ll tell you. But you have to calm down.”
Steven nodded slightly, the movement clearly taking substantial effort. His voice cracked. “I can scarcely move.”
“It’s okay. Just breathe through it.” Marc stepped forward again, so that he was face to face with Steven’s image. “It gets easier. But most of the time, it’s gonna take all of your energy just to be a fly on the wall.”
“Who are you?” Steven questioned, his voice trembling. “Please, tell me.”
“My name is Marc Spector. I’m the avatar of Khonshu. Which means – ” he glanced over his shoulder, then back at Steven. “ – you kind of are too.”
“Khonshu – as in, the Egyptian god of the moon?”
Marc nodded, releasing a breath. “Yes.”
“Oh, god, this is a dream,” Steven shook his head. “This is a dream, I’m dreaming.”
Marc could feel Steven’s panic rising again. “You’re not dreaming, Steven. This is real.”
Steven snapped back to attention, meeting his gaze once again. “If this isn’t a dream, then I’ve really lost it, haven’t I? I eat one steak, and bam!” His eyes widened. “I go bonkers.”
“Steven, this is real, and you’re not crazy.” Marc explained. “But I have a deal with Khonshu, and that deal is contingent on you not interfering.”
“Interfering?” Steven was incredulous. “This is my body!”
“And once I complete my mission, you’ll never see me again,” Marc promised. “You need to understand – the man who sent that jackal after you in the museum has something very important, and he’s going to use it to raise Ammit.”
“Ammit,” Steven repeated slowly. “Weird crocodile lady who eats the hearts of sinners?”
If Ammit is raised, she will devour the hearts of most of humanity. Khonshu stepped in, and Marc saw Steven freeze. She will judge the souls of the world. And she will kill nearly all of you.
Steven looked as though someone had just slapped him in the face. The knowledge of what was to come seemed to be making its way through his mind, nodding slowly as reality dawned on him. He supposed he had Steven’s ridiculously good knowledge of Egyptian mythology to thank for his sudden cooperation. Marc turned back to him fully. “Now you know.”
“I want a say in all this,” His voice was shaky, but Steven’s resolve was strong. “You don’t get to shut me out again, and leave me in the dark.”
“Steven – ”
“No, no, don’t Steven me,” he cut in. “I want to know what’s going on. I want to know where I am, and what I’m doing, and I want to stop feeling like I’m going completely bonkers.” Steven struggled, but he managed to step forward, so that his image seemed closer to the wall. Closer to Marc. “That’s my condition. Take it, or I take the body back.”
The worm bargains, Khonshu observed, his voice a mix of the usual disgust with a slight hint of pride. He pushed on. We have no time for this, Marc. Harrow could be long gone by now.
Marc glanced back to Steven, then to Khonshu, then back to Steven again. Why did he always feel so trapped between a rock and a hard place? Marc let out a groan, only a fraction of the frustration he felt becoming audible. “All right. All right, Steven. But you co-operate. You hear me?”
Steven nodded, and Marc turned his attention back to the god, still looming behind him. “Where do we go from here?”
Khonshu laughed, the sound booming through the storage unit, causing the walls to vibrate. The god turned to leave, not even sparing Marc so much as a glance.
Where the hell do you think?