Common Interest
Dusk fell over the great city of Cairo, and with it Marc’s hopes of finding the woman with the scarab. Even with the Stark tracking tech he’d stolen long ago on some far-away mission, finding Zara Fathi was like finding a needle in a haystack. More than once, he doubted whether the tracking device was even working – but he could never mention it. Steven was already deeply unhappy about their current pursuit, and he couldn’t risk losing his alter’s faith more than he already had. The moon glowed over the city, rising like a beacon in the clear night sky. Marc felt its power heighten his senses, the influence of Khonshu’s domain making him ever stronger.
He saw her a second before he caught her attention – the two of them frozen for a moment on the empty street, watching each other. “Steven,” Marc murmured, not daring to drop his gaze for even a second. “That her?”
Steven sighed, his voice in Marc’s head resigned. “Yes. That’s her.”
Marc took one step toward her, and she turned and ran.
“Damn it,” he muttered, sprinting after her. Zara ducked and weaved through the alleys, with such agility that Marc almost lost her several times. His legs burned, and he grunted as he ran, realising with dismay that he was losing ground already. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when one alley came to a dead end, and he finally thought he had her – she sprang upwards, cat-like, leaping and climbing until she made it to the roof. Marc swore. Guess he was going to need the suit after all.
The suit wrapped around him and he launched himself up the wall, landing behind her on the other end of the roof. Zara spared a glance back, then flung herself across the gap, landing gracefully on the next roof across. They raced across the rooftops, and every time Marc thought he had her cornered, she proved herself too nimble to be caught. Finally, glimpsing Khonshu out of the corner of his eye as he ran, he called on him.
“Little help?”
Khonshu obliged, and Marc watched as a gust of wind sideswiped Zara, sending her flying across one of the rooves, rolling once before skidding to a stop. She coughed dust as he approached her, rising from the ground with a wince. “That was cheating.”
Her voice had changed – the accent no longer British, but rather a mix of Egyptian and…something else. Marc stalked forward, the dark-haired woman watching him with eyes like a hawk. He lunged at her and she dodged, spinning to elbow him in the back of the head hard enough to send a jolt through his skull. Marc swung again and she kicked out his leg, sending him to one knee. He sprang up, stalking towards her, fuelled now by more than a little frustration. She parried every strike, countered every blow, and sent him reeling backwards with a kick to the chest. Marc staggered back in confusion, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. She shouldn’t be that strong. Especially when he was wearing the suit.
They exchanged blows again and she launched herself at him, springing off the ledge to wrap her legs around his neck, using her momentum to take him to the ground. Marc managed to use his weight to keep rolling as his back connected with the concrete roof, taking advantage of the rare misjudgement to land on top of her with a knee on her chest. Zara groaned under his weight, shifting under him like a trapped insect. “Tell me where the scarab is,” he hissed.
“Rude,” she forced the word out, smirking. “Steven would’ve at least said please.”
“What – ”
Suddenly she threw him off her, the force throwing both of them backward. Marc hit the wall hard enough that it cracked, and he saw Zara roll backward, coming up low in a crouched fighting stance. Ribbons of red and gold wrapped around her, morphing to cover her legs, shoulders, and torso, two curved blades materialising in her hands. Zara stood upright, her now armoured chest emblazoned with a sun, a golden ankh in the centre. Her strong, golden-brown arms were bare, save for the gilded cuffs adorning her forearms. A mask covered her face everywhere below her eyes, which glinted dangerously in the light of the moon. The two of them froze on either side of the roof, locked in stalemate, waiting for the other to make a move. Marc heard Steven gasp, but that wasn’t the only response his new foe had elicited.
It cannot be, Khonshu’s voice faltered, and he moved towards Zara, shaking his head in complete disbelief. Surely, she is not involved.
To his astonishment, Zara’s eyes flicked up, nodding once. “Lord Khonshu.”
“What?” Marc reeled, as though she’d struck him again. “How do – ” He glared at Zara, then Khonshu, incredulous. “What the hell is going on?”
The suit unravelled around him of its own volition, and Marc realised Khonshu was removing his armour. Zara sheathed her swords, smiling begrudgingly. “I have to say, I didn’t think you’d figure out it was me.”
“How the hell can you see him?” Marc looked to Khonshu, who seemed suddenly, uncharacteristically tense. Almost…anxious. “How can she see you? She shouldn’t be able to see you.”
“Marc,” Steven whispered. “I think – ”
“Not now,” Marc snapped, and realised too late that he’d said the words aloud.
Zara cocked her head. “Talking to Steven? If you are, tell him if he’s going to cut someone off, he should at least give an excuse.”
“Oh, see, Marc? Now she thinks I’m a twat!” Steven exclaimed. Marc ignored him.
“How can you see Khonshu? Why did you steal the scarab?” Marc questioned her, feeling like his brain had just been fried. “Who are you?”
Zara opened her mouth to reply, but it was Khonshu who spoke, with more reverence and humility than he’d ever heard from the god of the moon.
She is the avatar of Sekhmet, the goddess of war.
* * *
So far, Steven was by far her favourite.
Zara had promised Marc Spector answers to his questions – some, not all – so long as they could go somewhere they wouldn’t be risking being overhead, or seen. Unsurprisingly, Harrow had been waiting for them when they reached Marc’s hotel. Marc had spotted the man in red before she did, which was to be expected, considering Zara had never actually seen Arthur Harrow in person. Marc grabbed her forearm just as she’d begun to round the corner, pulling her swiftly backward. She glowered at him. “What the hell was that for?”
“Do you wanna get jumped by a bunch of Ammit-extremists?” he hissed, still holding her wrist. Zara raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to his hand on her arm, then back at him. Marc dropped her wrist quickly, nodding towards the front of the hotel. “The guy in red? That’s Harrow.”
Zara peeked out from behind the wall, and saw him straight away. Arthur Harrow twisted his cane in his hand, looking for all the world like a man simply waiting for the bus. His relaxed expression and casual stance certainly told that story, but there was a tension in the line of his shoulders that Zara could not ignore. She’d been trained for as long as she could remember to seek out every detail in people, to better magnify where they might misstep. Even if she hadn’t known better, it would have become clear to her that this man was waiting for something big.
And the very man he was hoping to find was standing right behind her – Marc Spector’s hand met the wall just behind her head as he watched Harrow over her shoulder. She could hear the catch in his breath each time Harrow moved, like he was preparing for a blow to the stomach. She shifted next to the wall. Does he have to be that close?
“We have to go,” Marc murmured, and for the first time since they’d met, she agreed with him. “He must have people everywhere around here.”
“I know of an abandoned safe house about twenty minutes from here. Harrow won’t find us there.”
“A safe house?” Marc’s mouth quirked up. What was so funny? “Who are you, James Bond?”
“Do you want to get attacked by a bunch of Ammit-extremists?” She shot back, glaring at him. “Just shut up and follow me. And don’t draw attention, if you can help it.”
Marc did his best rendition of a soldier’s salute, which was excellent, given his time in the military. It just irritated her more.
“Yes ma’am.”
* * *
The safe house was exactly as she remembered.
Nestled in the backstreets of Cairo, the little unit still looked like it had been transported through time directly from the seventies. Zara found little comfort in the hideously patterned wallpaper and the shaggy curtains, each detail of the room hitting her like a blow to the gut. Memories swirled upward as she touched a finger to the drapes, threatening to drag her down to the depths of her past. Absently she realised Marc was watching her, and she dropped her hand. “What are you looking at?”
“Are you going to tell me whose safe house this is?” His brows rose expectantly, a questioning tilt to his head.
Her lips quirked upward. “That’s classified.”
“Sure it is,” Marc grumbled, leaning against the wall. “Are you at least gonna tell me why you stole the scarab from my storage locker? And how you even knew it was there?”
“If you tell me why you blocked my number on Steven’s phone, sure,” Zara retorted. She knew she was pushing him, but she didn’t care. Long gone were the days where she had to exercise such self-control, and although she couldn’t explain why, it brought her a certain kind of pleasure to watch Marc Spector get riled.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because I asked you,” Zara cocked her head, not dropping her glare. “And if you want my answer, you’ll tell me.”
Marc dropped his head back against the wall, huffing in frustration. She took in the curve of his neck, the smooth bronze of his skin, tearing her gaze away just in time for him to lock eyes with her again. “I thought you were a civilian.”
“And, what? Steven can’t go on a date or two?”
“Not when the world is at stake, no,” he snapped, and then clenched his jaw. She watched as his expression faltered, as if he were having an internal conversation. Which, of course, he probably was. “Steven is in danger because he shares a body with me, and I have – had – what Harrow wanted. There was no need to endanger anyone else.” Zara nodded slowly, and he raised his hands. “Happy now?”
“I followed you from the museum,” Zara admitted, and Marc straightened in surprise. “I knew Harrow would find that scarab eventually, so I took it.”
“Took it…” Marc repeated. “To do…what, exactly? Keep it for yourself? Add to your collection?”
Zara narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you think I’m an idiot, or something?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, since you’re so smart, have a think about it.” Zara raised her brows, her tone mocking. “I’m Sekhmet’s avatar, and she’s an Egyptian goddess who very much does not want to see a certain other Egyptian goddess get raised from her tomb.”
“Exactly,” Marc rebuked, scowling. “So why take the scarab from Khonshu and I? It was fine under my protection.”
“Except it wasn’t, was it?” Zara argued, sauntering towards him. “You almost lost it. Several times, I might add.”
Marc folded his arms, unrelenting. “And what exactly do you plan on doing with it, then?”
“I’m taking it to Luxor.”
Marc dropped his hands, perplexed. “Are you gonna tell me why?”
“No,” Zara answered simply, giving a shrug. “Your work is done. I can take it from here.”
I would advise against that. The voice ricocheted off the walls, causing both of them to start. Khonshu materialised behind them. Harrow is strong, and has many, many followers. Two avatars against him are better than one.
“With respect, Lord Khonshu,” Zara replied. “I can handle this myself. And besides, Marc here is like an Arthur Harrow magnet.”
Marc stared at her incredulously. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”
She grinned at him, which only seemed to agitate him further. “Yes.”
But Khonshu was having none of it. The moon god paced in front of them, shaking his skull, looking straight at Zara. Sekhmet has a plan for that scarab, does she not?
“She does.”
And you are to carry it out?
Zara nodded. “As is my duty.”
Then it is decided – you will be accompanied by my avatar.
Both Marc and Zara’s voices rose in protest, but Khonshu silenced them with a wave of his staff. Leave it to a god to ruin her plans. You are to work together to protect the scarab from Harrow. That is not a request – Khonshu grew taller, so that he towered over both of them in the dingy room.
That is an order.