Two Ghosts
Zara never thought the day would come where she’d feel sorry for a mercenary.
The bricks of the building across the road from the safe house slowly ground their way open, Marc staggering through the portal as though his legs were going to give out on him at any moment. Zara strode forward to meet him, reaching him just in time for Marc to stumble forward, straight into her. Zara shot her arms out to steady him but it was too late – Marc practically collapsed into her, their bodies meeting as if in an embrace. She grunted as she took most of his weight, Marc just managing to right himself before they would have fallen into a heap on the abandoned street. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Zara looked up to see his face was unnervingly pale. “Just can’t seem to – ”
“It’s okay,” she assured, her stomach flipping at the sight of him. Marc released her, in a stubborn attempt to stand on his own. He swayed uncontrollably and she grabbed him again, pulling one of his arms around her shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot, Marc,” she chided, laughing a little in a somewhat futile attempt to disguise her concern. “Let me help you.”
They staggered across the street, and Zara tried not to grunt under his weight. Finally, they made it inside the safe house, Marc collapsing in a heap on the grungy old lounge. He was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead, brows furrowed in what could only be severe discomfort. She retrieved an old washcloth and dabbed it across his forehead, realising with a start that he was watching her intently. Marc’s hand met her own as he gently took the cloth from her fingers. “You don’t need to do that,” he murmured softly.
“Didn’t I just tell you not to be stupid?” She teased, taking the cloth back. “The first time a god speaks through you is always the worst. And Khonshu didn’t exactly take it easy on you.”
“Definitely didn’t feel like it,” Marc muttered, not letting go of the cloth, still clearly being stubborn about her helping him. Zara cocked her head at him, raising her eyebrows. They stared at each other, locked in stalemate for a moment before he finally relented, leaning his head back to stare at the roof. “He saw right through me.”
Zara stilled her hand at his forehead, Harrow’s words in the desert echoing through her head. Something tells me you are not one to judge a killer. She shuddered at the memory. “He was just trying to get in your head.”
“Well, it worked,” Marc stated, frustration coming off him in waves. “He read me like a book. He knew exactly how to come out of that trial unscathed. And Khonshu and I played right into his hands.”
Marc pinched the bridge of his nose, slowly releasing a breath through his mouth. Finally he looked at her, his lovely dark eyes brimming with anguish. “Wanna know the worst part about it all?” Zara’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he let out a sigh. “The worst part is – he was right.”
Zara reeled back abruptly. “About what?”
“About me,” Marc muttered, running a hand down his face. “He was right about me. My whole life, I’ve never really known myself. Ever since I was a kid,” he shook his head. “All I’ve ever been is a fucking ghost.”
Zara felt her heart drop to her feet. “Marc…”
“I keep making the same decisions, repeating the same mistakes.” He continued, his eyes suspiciously misty as he stared pointedly at the roof. “First it was the military, then it was the mercs, where all I managed to do was fuck things up.” Zara didn’t speak – the words were rushing out of him now, like a raging river. “I should’ve died, the day that Khonshu found me. Lord knows everyone else did, everyone else that was there that didn’t deserve it. It should’ve been me – not those archaeologists, not those innocent people who never asked for any of it.” She saw his jaw spasm, as though his very body was trying to stop him from speaking altogether. “And I thought, you know, that maybe if I worked with Khonshu to protect people I’d be able to make up for all the pain I’ve caused. I thought I could make it right. But nothing ever will, will it?” He looked at her, defeated. “Nothing in the world can turn back time.”
Marc squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth so hard Zara was sure they would shatter. His anger and frustration had morphed into pure grief, and all Zara could think in that moment was that she’d never met anyone else who seemed so hopelessly, so completely, so crushingly alone. The silence between them stretched on, memories threatening to break through the wall in Zara’s mind and swallow her whole. She glanced at the room around her, the ghosts of her past pressing inward – constant, incessant – until finally, she could bear the silence no longer.
“I know something of what that’s like,” she said quietly, and she heard Marc’s breathing slow in anticipation. “The only thing I truly know for sure about myself, is that I was born in this country.”
Marc’s eyes flew open and he stared at her, their gazes locking, his words full of bewilderment. “What do you mean?”
“My whole life…” she trailed off, the words sticking like honey in her throat, causing her to drop her gaze. Come on, she urged herself. You had your whole life to be silent. Now speak. “My whole life was built on lies.”
Marc didn’t speak – he just listened, and suddenly the silence didn’t feel so imposing. Zara waded on through the memories, focusing solely on staying afloat. “The only thing I know for sure is that I was born in Egypt. I don’t know where, and I don’t completely know when. I know that I was taken between the ages of three and five…” Her voice faltered, and she knew Marc was watching her with those beautiful brown eyes. She couldn’t look at him. If she looked anywhere else but the ground, the words would cease to flow and would never begin again. “I came back to try to find my family – parents, siblings, anything – but I…I couldn’t. I couldn’t find them.”
The lump forming in her throat threatened to choke her words and she reached into her pocket, the familiar feel of the metal clasp she carried with her under her fingers. “I don’t even know if Zara Fathi is my real name,” she admitted, letting out a bitter laugh. “Or if that’s just the name they assigned me because they stole me from here.”
Marc’s breathing hitched and she felt his shock like a wave, but she still could not meet his eyes. Her voice was bitter when she spoke, drenched with years of uncertainty and grief for the past she’d never known. “The people who raised me filled my head with lies, but they were right about one thing – ” Finally she dragged her eyes from the floor to meet his, full of sorrow. “I have no place in the world.”
She pulled the clasp out of her pocket fully, holding it lightly in her hands, before handing it to him. Marc’s eyes widened as he took it, sitting fully upright as recognition lit his face like a flare. “You’re a black widow,” he breathed.
She stared at the clasp, the red hourglass encompassed as always by a frame of black. “I was.”
He looked at her then, and she could see his mind racing behind his eyes. “The black widows were like legends to mercenaries. Infamous, for the amount of times they’d beat us to the punch or jeopardise our jobs. Half of us didn’t even believe they existed.” His hands traced the symbol gently, fingers running over the crimson hourglass with such care and awe that she felt almost self-conscious. “How did you get out?”
“Another widow,” Zara recalled, flashes of memory fleeting in her mind’s eye. “I was part of the first generation to be experimented on with chemical subjugation. Three widows took down the Red Room, and one of them didn’t stop there. She went around the world, breaking widows free of the Red Room’s mind control.” Marc’s jaw dropped in astonishment, and she continued. “She was the same generation as me, one of the few who made it all the way through. She found me when I was a sleeper in Alexandria. She broke me out.”
Marc seemed perplexed. “The Red Room – ”
“Is where we were trained,” Zara explained. “They took little girls from all around the globe, so that they would have inconspicuous operatives for every country. Only about one in twenty makes it through the training and becomes a widow. The rest…” Zara trailed off, her eyes brimming with tears. She swallowed the lump in her throat, staring at the ground. “We lost so many,” she remembered, her voice barely a whisper. “So, so many.” Abruptly she took back the clasp from Marc, swiping at a stray tear that had escaped from her eye. “I’m sorry,” she muttered quickly, pocketing the clasp and moving to stand. “I don’t know why I said all that – ”
“Hey,” Marc’s hand found her arm, his fingers gentle on her wrist. To her surprise, she didn’t want to pull away. “What happened to you was not your fault. You never would’ve chosen that life.”
“But I still lived it,” Zara recalled bitterly, Harrow’s words still playing on a loop through her mind. “I still hurt people, and I still killed. I killed so many people. And I remember every single one of them.”
His fingers were still holding her arm, but loosely. She could pull away. She could pull away and walk away and pretend this conversation never happened. Maybe Marc would even do her the favour of pretending, too. But when she finally met his gaze, the way he was looking at her told her she could never do it. His thumb ran over her wrist, lost in memories all of his own. “Me, too.”
Gradually Marc stood up, his hand still on her arm, so that he was directly in front of her. He was close enough that Zara could see the stubble running across his jawline, the curve of his neck, the Star of David peeking out from underneath his shirt. His fingers slowly traced their way up her bare arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She looked up at him and he met her eyes, his hand going still against her. Before she had time to think about it, Zara pulled him in by his shirt and kissed him.
For a split-second, Marc froze in surprise. Then his hand came up to cup her cheek, warm and slightly rough and everything she needed to pull her back to the present moment. His other arm wrapped around her waist, Zara’s snaking around his neck, pulling him ever closer. His curls were as soft as they looked, as were his lips as they moved in sync with hers. Marc pulled her back towards the couch, his hands grazing the skin at the bottom of her shirt –
The two of you do realise the world is still at stake, Khonshu’s voice boomed through the house as he appeared in the room, and they abruptly split apart, almost jumping out of their skins. The god of the moon leant back on the dining table, shaking his head. Absolutely irresponsible. There is no time for this.
Zara gasped. “Oh my god – ”
“And what would you have us do, Khonshu?” Marc folded his arms, strangely composed and clearly annoyed. “You’re the one who insulted the gods at the trial. They were never gonna listen.”
I would have you track Harrow down, Khonshu retorted, indignant. As is your duty as our avatars.
“We have no way of doing that,” Zara reasoned, just barely managing to slow her heart rate so that it didn’t feel like it was going to jump out of her chest. “We will have to find another way to stop him.”
There is no other way. He must not reach that tomb.
Marc was incredulous. “The only reason I could track Zara was because I had her phone number, and she answered my call. Finding Harrow now would be like finding a needle in a goddamn desert, and he has the scarab. Ammit is gonna be up and out of that tomb before we know it.”
He glanced at Zara, the two of them locking eyes for a moment. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her mind working overtime. “There’s no way we are going to find him before he finds Ammit, so we need a way to take them both down when – not if, that happens.”
“Is there a way we can turn her to stone, like what they threatened to do to you?” Marc queried, looking to Khonshu. “Steven said he saw some statues of the gods in one of the chambers we walked through.”
That would require another audience with the gods and their avatars, Khonshu explained, somewhat exasperated. If you recall, I cannot summon them without altering the sky. And if I do that again, I too will be imprisoned.
“Wait, what?” Zara interjected, snapping to attention. “Which gods did he see? Where were they?”
Marc blinked at her, mouth agape. “I…I don’t know, I just vaguely remember him pointing them out when we were in the pyramid – ”
“Can you ask him now?” Zara asked quickly. Marc considered her for a moment, his brow furrowed. He suddenly seemed far away, and he looked away from her. She stepped forward, reasoning. “This could help us. We need to know who they were. Sekhmet said that other gods had been imprisoned – ”
“And if we figure out who,” his voice changed, the British accent immediately grabbing her attention. Zara watched as Steven raised his eyebrows, his features lighting up in excitement. “Then maybe we can figure out who can help us stop Ammit.”
Zara stared at him for a moment, speechless. Steven smiled warmly at her. “Sorry about Marc blocking your number. Gets a bit riled, he does.”
Zara opened her mouth to reply, but Khonshu beat her to it, the disgust in his voice evident as ever.
Oh, great. The worm is back.